


Blue is the Warmest Color

by elunablue



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming of Age, Existentialism, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Secrets, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, First Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Sexual Abuse, Philosophy, Sexuality, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:27:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 111,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elunablue/pseuds/elunablue
Summary: Prototype android RK-800, dubbedConnor, was created by the trillion-dollar tech company CyberLife for the sole purpose of being the most thoroughly efficient detective to ever exist. Distant and logical, Connor approaches his tasks with a cold focus and perception that no human being could ever be capable of. Day after day, he relentlessly pursues androids gone rogue with the help of his partner, Hank Anderson.Then, during the winter of 2038, upon an unexpected meeting with a strange young woman whom he becomes enamored with, Connor begins to experience worrying instability in his own programs, and this ultimately leads him to wonder what his true purpose is in life, and where that leaves him. In time, he comes to learn that she may be much more than she lets on, and perhaps it is these same secrets which made their love possible in the first place, yet ultimately led to their undoing.Red may be the color of the heart, but blue is the warmest color.





	1. Prologue (Make This Go On Forever)

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read my _Ex_Machina_ story, you will find many similarities because I had planned and written much of this one before I even began that one, and I used many of the same ideas, and similar characterization. 
> 
> I have stretched the timeline of the game out to be significantly longer, as the entire game takes place unrealistically over the course of one week.
> 
> The story will take place from November 2038 to May 2039, instead. 
> 
> The title of this story is named after the 2013 French film, _Blue is the Warmest Color._
> 
> The chapter title comes from Snow Patrol's "Make This Go On Forever." Link below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m4giE9QhJ48

_Maybe it began in the backyard._

She had been swinging behind the house on a tire in a tree, bare feet dangling over the earth of the ground, one overall strap unclasped and hanging loose on her chest. A crown of flowers sat upon her head and she looked like an Indigo Child, sent down to Earth to bring endless creativity and empathy unknown to mankind.

Never in the year since his creation had Connor ever seen somebody _so alive_ , all smiles and wide eyes full of wonder and happiness. 

Or maybe, it had already begun before he even knew that she existed. In order to have the ability to love, one must already have the propensity to fall – and you can’t build a house without the foundation. And maybe a glance was all it took to make that house into a home. 

When he first saw her, she hadn’t noticed him, as her eyes were closed and her face turned away. So, he watched her as she sat in the swing, leaning back, feet in the air, swinging around under the bare sunshine of November, while jazz music played from an unseen location inside the house, and carried a tune out into the yard from the open back door. 

It was an uncharacteristically warm day for early winter, and she was out here, soaking the sunshine up through her skin like a flower. Or maybe, one of those solar-powered dancing ones that teachers place in their classroom windows. 

At the time, he didn’t yet understand why humans liked to spend their time outdoors, out in the sun where they may get burned, where their skin may be damaged. 

But now he knew. Now he understood why she was the way she was. 

And he wanted to take that moment and make it go on forever.

Chills of early winter and promises of a first snowfall loomed on the horizon, and any day now, those flakes would fall from the thick, white clouds overhead, and shower the Earth in a blanket of frozen water. Despite being a warmer day for winter, the temperature was still very low, and certainly not one to be out in with no shoes on. Yet, here she was, spending this day outside, entirely unbothered by it all. 

In retrospect, he should’ve known from the beginning. Should’ve seen the signs and realized it sooner. Should’ve paid more attention to her, focused on the bigger picture, instead of just the little intrigues and quirks of hers that he quickly came to love. But he was blind, and he ignored them.

Maybe if he had realized it before it began, things could have been different. Different doesn’t always mean better, but in this case, maybe it would have been. If he had known then what he knows now, would he have changed his mind when he asked her if she would stay with him forever?

_Forever._ That word again. 

Something so short that means so little because of how often it’s carelessly thrown around with, _“This is taking forever!”_ or “ _You’ve been gone forever!_ ” With no weight to support its meaning, it is only an exaggeration meant to measure and express the passage of time. 

The first time they spoke, she’d asked him something that he’d never been asked before, and for the first time, he felt surprised.

_“Are you really an android?” She’d questioned, looking up at him with wonder and curiosity like he was not just the first android she’d ever seen, but altogether the first person entirely._

_“Yes, I am.” Connor answered with an awkward smile, unsure of how else to respond to the question._

_Wasn’t it obvious? He’d always assumed it went without saying, since ANDROID was clearly printed on the back of jacket, and his armband and blue triangle weren’t just for aesthetics._

_“Oh,” She’d said, and she actually sounded genuinely surprised, yet almost wondrously excited, like a young child on Christmas Day. It was as though someone had just told her that mermaids were real, and that she was allowed to keep one. “I’ve never met an android before.”_

And then she’d asked to touch his skin, and when she did, when she ran her fingertips over his arms and hands, then lightly dusted them up his neck and jaw, his cheekbones, something happened inside of him. Something like chills, maybe, or like taking a warm shower after you’ve been out in the cold of the rain. Substituting one wetness for another, but this time, it is because you have chosen to let the water touch your skin that it becomes enjoyable, _pleasurable._

For so long, he lived without touch, without feel. The sensors under his skin mimicked that of a human nerve, but those feelings were only cosmetic, and entirely unnecessary to his functions as an android. And now, for the first time, he felt like he could never live without them again. Finally, he was aware of a world of physical touch and emotion that he had never known. 

Just a half-hour after they’d met in the backyard, she’d gone on to give him a tour of her bedroom, excitedly showing him things that she’d collected, like old photographs and shells, ribbons and tiny figurines.

_“I like you, Connor from CyberLife.” She’d said suddenly, nodding her head lightly as she gave him her result, letting him know that she approved, like he had passed a test he hadn't even been aware that he was taking._

_“You do?” He’d asked, confusion clear on his face. They had only just met not even an hour ago. Was that enough time to determine how you felt about someone?_

_“Yes.” She’d said, quite matter-of-factly, like it was as normal and factual as having been asked if his hair was brown._

_She hadn’t seemed to give it a second thought, and Connor wondered if she had already decided that she liked him as soon as she first set her eyes on him outside, when she had finally noticed that he had been watching her in the swing, to which she had smiled widely at him, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. And somehow, she seemed entirely unbothered that a strange man had shown up on her doorstep._

_“I have never met a person like **you** before.” Was what she’d said next, and he didn’t quite know how to take that._

A person. She’d called him “a person.” 

He didn’t know what that meant. It was like being bestowed an honorary title, being given permission to _feel_ , and what he felt was honored that this strange and beautiful girl thought he was worthy of humanity. That he was worth just as much, if not more, than a human. 

Perception affects the way that we remember the past, and it is this subjective emotion that causes us to romanticize what’s no longer ours. We remove the negativity in memory, and focus only on the good, which can cause us to feel further grief at the loss of the people and places in those memories. Every moment is the best moment of our life, once it’s in the past, because nostalgia is the greatest aphrodisiac. 

We will always want _more._

_More_ things.

_More_ friends.

_More_ love.

_More time._

Because the present is never enough.

And once you have something that you’ve ached for, for so long, it suddenly decreases in value, because the chase is over. The wanting and waiting is half of what makes it _desirable_. When something isn’t yours, it only makes you want it _more_. And once it is, we often lose the drive to make it stay with us, because we become lulled by the false sense that nothing we have can ever be taken away. 

But none of this is true for Connor. 

Humans base their lives around the cumulative experiences that come upon them throughout their time here, nature versus nurture, and they run their days on a ticking clock. Every moment could be the last, and so they spend all their time worrying about it, wasting it. 

But what’s a century to someone who will live forever? What’s an afternoon, if not, one fragment of millions of moments that they will go on to experience over the course of _forever?_

Humans don’t know forever. They can promise it, sure, and they can use it as a figurative way to mean _a very long time_ , but they will never live it, never know what it means to be never-ending. 

Human life is categorized by presence and absence. What we don’t have versus what we do. Life is presence and death is absence. Life is gain and death is loss. Constants and variables that dictate how we spend our short time here, constantly afraid that what we have will be taken away in the blink of an eye. 

An android’s entire existence is based on forever. Based on the ability to outlast organic life, to be better than us in every way. Stronger, smarter, more resilient. _Eternal._ And once humans have all faded away, become a blip in the history of the world…androids will still remain, rusting away their days on Earth, no longer ruled by the humans who created them.

One day, our world will become so distanced from what it once was, that future species will be unable to connect the dots to the past anymore. The only way the history of our people will carry on is through the memories of androids. Millions of bytes of data in every one of them, stagnantly waiting for an opportunity to be utilized.

Our iron tools and dishes, unable to be torn apart by weather or foul, will fall beneath thousands of years of dirt and debris, and one day, some future soul will dig them up and have absolutely no idea how to recreate them. Because that technology will have been lost.

One day, long after humans have passed, we will return again in a second wave, hundreds, if not thousands of years from now. And our androids will finally know the feeling of _invasion_ , the feeling of having their world infringed upon by beings which do not belong there. Much in the same way that humans do now. 

Humans will be the foreigners on Earth, the outsiders. And they will have to fight for hierarchical dominance against the machines that their ancestors created.

When an android says forever, they do not mean a very long time. They mean forever, as _forever._

A human’s ultimate test of love and loyalty is to ask, _“Would you die for me?”_ Because the loss of life is treated as the highest form of human fear. People build their entire lives around the concept of death, and they dictate their actions based on the avoidance of it. Fascinated with death while simultaneously being terrified of it - maybe that's just our nature as humans. We beg for answers we cannot have, and only so many angels can dance on the head of a pin before they all fall off.

But what is death to an android? Nothing? The void? Death is only another state of being for them, equivalent to being in a low-power mode, because, with the right modifications, they can be brought back from the dead. Their memory is never lost as a human’s is. Their memories exist separately from their physical bodies, and can be removed and transplanted into another vessel for another time. 

Time doesn’t pass for androids because there is no beginning or end. There is only the present.

Forever.

And that is why Connor never asked that. Because to him, death isn’t an end. It’s a setback, but it is not an absence of life in the way that it is for humans. He doesn’t have _life_ , as we understand it, to begin with.

That is why, when he’d told her he loved her, he asked, instead:

_“Would you live for me? Forever?”_

_“Forever,” she promised, the corners of her eyes crinkled in smile and filled with a joy she had never known before. She reached up and touched the side of his face, lightly trailing her hand down the skin of his cheek. “Forever and even more.”_

_“You’ll never go?” He’d asked, worry evident in his tone as he thought about the possibility of this ending. He wanted to make this go on forever._

_She grabbed his hand between them as they lay there on the bed, and held it to her heart._

_“Never, in a million years.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could._   
>  _The first kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything._   
>  _The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned._   
>  _The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love._


	2. Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be changing the timeline around a bit as Hank and Connor are going to be going on more missions throughout the course of this story than they did in-game, so if the dates don't match the game exactly, that's why.
> 
> Chapter title comes from the Paper Kites' "Bloom." Link below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4XdnD5c334

N O V E M B E R 7th , 2038

It wasn’t a greeting. More like – _an intrigue_ , propositioned by somebody who had just come into this world for the first time, and had yet to experience the monotonous repetition of meeting new people. She sounded excited to see him, excitement that he had never heard from anyone before, human _or_ android.

“Hello.” She said, her swinging ceased but the tire still moving about slightly, hovering her legs above the ground. Her eyes were blank without being absent, like she was free of preconception. He felt like with one look, she already knew everything about him, but even then, she didn’t assume anything. Like she was going to let his actions speak to tell her if he was a good person.

“Uh…hello.” He replied, surprised to have found anyone in the backyard and unsure how was supposed to react to this. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be here.”

Something she did a lot was say nothing, Connor would soon realize, and that’s exactly what she did just now. She let words and feelings pass between them unspoken, sending vibrational emotions out into the air which got caught in his orbit. In a situation that many would have called an awkward silence, it was anything but.

It was like two deer caught in headlights, where both of them were simultaneously the deer and the vehicle about to hit it. Schrödinger’s Cat, so to speak. They were both here and there, both present and absent. Two strange people in a chance meeting that couldn’t have happened any other way.

And if he could take everything back, every locked gaze, every returned smile, every breath of life, every broken hallelujah, every stolen kiss – he would do it in a heartbeat. He would give up everything to go back and know in that moment of their meeting what he would come to learn in the months after.

Then maybe this all could’ve been different. Maybe he could’ve changed things. Prevented what would happen.

“Does Hank Anderson live here?” Connor asked carefully, suddenly doubting whether or not he had the correct address. He _knew_ that he did, but suddenly he felt not so sure about himself anymore. Like he’d passed through a doorway and suddenly forgotten what he had been doing prior.

“Yes, he does.” She said plainly, and gave no further explanation, still watching him calmly, but cautiously with her eyes. Like catching a bear in the woods in a moment of peace, fishing in the banks of a river. You’re both curious and cautious, and even though you know you should be afraid, you’re also extremely intrigued by it.

“My name is Connor, I work with Lieutenant Anderson and I came by to see if he was home.”

Eyes never breaking his gaze and feet still swinging lightly beneath her, her toes almost brushing the frozen grass, she bit the inside of her mouth, perhaps in thought, but said nothing in response. She was concernedly unafraid of this complete stranger in her backyard, who may as well have come to kidnap her, yet also held a sense of caution over him, like she hadn’t decided yet if he was good or bad.

Or maybe it wasn’t caution at all. It was almost as though she was unaware that she was supposed to respond. Like she didn’t realize that this was a conversation.

“ _Is_ he home?” Connor asked, rephrasing his former statement as a question in order to elicit an answer out of her. Maybe she just hadn’t understood the implied question in his words before.

“No.” She answered flatly, and then there was silence again. Not uncomfortable, but…still more silence than was normal for a back-and-forth conversation between two people. He wasn’t sure how to navigate this situation where his conversational partner seemed oblivious to the rules of proper social etiquette.

“Do you live here as well?” He enquired, gesturing vaguely to the house beside him and keeping his tone light and jovial, friendly, trying to find some way to re-stimulate the flow of conversation.

“Yes.” She answered. “I’m his daughter.”

_But he already knew that_ , because while her back had been turned, he had analyzed her and picked apart her entire existence in a fraction of a second. Her birthdate and exact age, right down to the second, as well as her name, height, weight, her familial relations. All of that information was now his, but it got him no closer to knowing her. He prided himself in being able to read people, but he didn’t understand her.

Her tone, although blunt, was never harsh. She had a distinct aura of dottiness, like she saw no reason for the charade of social niceties and cut straight to the gut of the question. There was no fluff, no beating-around-the-bush. She gave what he asked for, nothing more and nothing less, and yet still withheld enough information to create a sense of mystery around her.

Connor didn’t like being in the dark. He didn’t like not having all the cards in his hand. And she was playing her own game without even knowing it, already leading him somewhere he wasn’t sure the location of.

_Why hadn’t Hank told him that he had a daughter?_

After that, they exchanged a few more words in the backyard about her being Hank’s daughter, then the slowly cooling winter weather, and then Connor’s job at CyberLife. Connor had asked her if he could come inside, to get out of the cold, and she’d said, “Okay.”

So here they were, entering the home together, her trailing behind him as she slid the glass door shut slowly and then wiped her feet off on the mat by the door, slipping on a pair of slippers beside it. She’d suggested that he should take off his shoes indoors, and although she had sounded polite in her words, making it seem like it was his choice, he still felt that she really would prefer that he did, so he obliged.

“Have we met before?” Connor asked as he stepped, now sock-footed, across the white tiled floor of the room they had entered, the kitchen. It was much warmer inside, he decided, and certainly a much more agreeable temperature for a human to be in, for her sake. It didn’t exactly matter either way to him, but he did know that extreme coldness could potentially freeze his biocomponents, and so being in here was admittedly much preferable to being out there.

Everything about her seemed familiar, without ever having met her before. But not in a soulmate sort of way. It was like when you meet someone in a dream and then feel like you knew them because of your interactions in your slumbering subconscious.

“I…don’t believe so.” She said, her face twisted into a look of deep thought, and she moved her mouth from side to side as she considered his face, trying to place it in her memory. “I haven’t met many people, but, you do seem… _familiar,_ though.”

“What’s your name?” He asked, as one does when they first met someone new, despite the fact that he already knew the answer.

She hesitated momentarily before she told him, almost as though she had just made it up on the spot. Like she had taken time to determine whether or not she was going to reveal her true name to him or if she was going to create an alias. The name she gave him matched the name he had drawn from her facial recognition earlier, and he felt strangely honored that she had decided to be honest with him. Like she had decided he was worth telling, _worth getting to know._

They passed through the kitchen and into the living room adjacent to it, where they then sat down on the couch, her crisscrossed and facing him directly, and him sitting much more formally.

“Your name is Connor.” She stated, repeating the name he had given her earlier outside. She said it flatly, more so for herself than for him, like she was trying to commit it to memory.

“Yes, Connor. I’m an android sent by CyberLife to help with investigations at the police department.”

She said nothing in response, yet again, for what felt like forever, and the expression on her face was almost entirely unreadable, blank. Inside, though, he could tell that she was deep in thought because the movements of her eyes gave way to a world of intrigue in her mind. Her eyes were wide, but also vaguely squinted at him, and her pupils darted to every corner of his face, like she was considering the artistic work of a porcelain sculpture.

“Are you really an android?” Her tone was suspicious, but innocuous, and nowhere near accusatory. She was genuinely curious, as though this weren’t a strange question to ask despite the fact that it was quite obvious that he was, indeed, _an android_ , given the LED inlayed upon his right temple, or the bright blue armband and triangle upon his lapel.

“Yes, I am model RK-800. I’m a prototype.”

Again, she said nothing. She was asking questions but not seeming to have a desire for a fully-fledged conversation. She was the examiner, and he, the examinee.

“Can I feel your skin?” She asked, and he nodded.

Slowly, she reached out her dominant hand and held it up to his shoulder, running her fingertips down the fabric of his jacket. She bit her lip in concentration, as though this were a _very_ interesting thing indeed.

When she reached his wrist, she pushed up his sleeve slightly and turned his hand over to examine the synthetic, blue veins that ran beneath his palm. She placed two fingers over them and tilted her head curiously, as if trying to count the beats of his heart.

“I’ve never met an android before.” She admitted.

“That…seems unlikely, given that androids have been in production for almost twenty years. How old are you?” Connor asked. He had never met anyone who had never known any other androids. This was strange to him.

“ _Almost twenty_.” She said, a bit of a rise in her voice, somewhat seeming to be teasing him by repeating his words. “And how old are you?” She asked.

“I do not have an age.” Connor said, and she frowned.

“Hmm…” She put her finger up to her lips and tapped them in thought, considering his face carefully and attempting to draw a conclusive number from the way he appeared. “I’d say you’re…twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two.” Connor repeated, turning the number over in his head and considering it. He decided that yes, it was a good number.

“Yes,” She said. “Because you look young, but also established. You have a job that requires years of training, and I would’ve said older, but your eyes change your whole face.”

“How so?” He asked, and she reached up to trace over his eyelids, which he allowed with a soft closing of them. He could feel the tips of her fingers brush over his lashes and then down the rest of his face. Touch seemed to be part of her understanding process, like she needed to physically feel him to know that he was real.

“They’re…permanently confused.” She said with a playful tone, and he couldn’t help but smile back at her words. “You always look lost, even when you know what you’re doing. You’re a man, but your eyes are like a little boy’s. They betray your outward prestige.”

Connor watched her, a soft smile never leaving his face as she continued to feel his skin again, and he felt so understood for some reason. Like he didn’t need to be anybody other than himself here. If he had a self at all. She was so focused on making a perfect map of his skin texture and the layout of his face, like she was worried that once he left, she would forget what he looked like.

“I didn’t realize that Hank had a daughter.” Connor said as she turned his head slightly and felt along his jawline. But she didn’t answer, again not seeming to feel that his statement required one. Or like she hadn't read into the question implied in his words, again.

“Do you know when Hank will be home?” He asked, and she shrugged, still busy studying him.

“Not really.” She said, and then turned his head to other way to feel his jaw on the opposite side. “Your skin feels soft, and I like the shape of your bones underneath.”

He had come here to retrieve the Lieutenant and bring him to a crime scene downtown, for a woman who had been found kidnapped and trapped inside of the home of a deviant who had been posing as a human. The woman had been missing for months, and they got the call about an hour ago that she had escaped from the house and sought shelter at a nearby neighbor’s, where she then contacted 911.

And yet now, here he was, sitting with this girl's hand on his face and telling him that he had nice bone structure.

Abruptly, she dropped her hands from him and he felt sad at the loss of connection. Like the touch had been two batteries pressed together that were generating electricity. Or maybe her hands were just warm, where his were cold, and it caused chills to wash over him. And he wished that they would warm him up again.

“Would you like to see my room?” She asked.

“I…sure, I guess.” He said, his words audibly tentative as he wasn’t sure what the correct answer was.

She unfolded her legs and stood up from the couch then, and then held out her hand. He was startled for a moment at the gesture, but then returned it by placing his own in hers, and she seemed glad that he had reciprocated.

“Do you have a home, Connor?” She asked as she led him down the hallway behind the couch, which held three doors to other rooms in the house.

“No. I return to CyberLife when I am not working.” He said, and she seemed saddened to hear that, as her face fell and her grip on his hand was tightened ever so slightly.

“Everyone should have a home.” She stated. “Would you like one?”

“That isn’t really a concern of mine.” Connor’s tone was indifferent, and he really felt that way. He didn’t need a home because he didn’t eat or sleep. He was the best detective because he was the most efficient, and these little human necessities only got in the way of the job.

“You should have one, I think.” She decided, nodding her head in approval at her own words. “That way you can have _things._ ”

“Things?” Connor asked, and then they stopped as they reached the end of the hall.

At the end of the short hallway, there was another door, adjacent to what appeared to be Hank’s room. Connor had assumed from the front of the house that this would be the location of the garage, but it now seemed that it had been converted into a bedroom for her.

“Yes, things.” She repeated happily. “I like things. Do you?”

Connor shrugged. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter to me.”

Inside the room was an averagely-sized space, with walls that were painted pure white and the floor was a polished hardwood. On both side walls, shelves full of decorations and assortments of various items had been carefully positioned. On the wall opposite the door, there was a large window which extended slightly outwards and left room for a window seat, which she had filled with a collection of pillows and stuffed animals. The head of her bed was pushed against the wall opposite the windowed wall, and it had white metal head and foot boards, curling decoratively in spiraled twists.

As soon as she entered, she had gone over to one of her shelves and begun to flip through the pages of a photo album. Connor hovered by the door, not sure if he was invited to come in any further and look around.

“Here.” She said, pulling something out of the book she had grabbed. “This can be your first _thing._ ”

She replaced the book on the shelf, then came back over to him near the door and handed him a small, black and white photograph of a frowning young boy standing next to a tree. It was a very plain photo, but not uninteresting in the slightest. It was somewhat ghostly, and the expression on the boy’s face begged to tell a story lost to history.

“Who is this?” Connor asked, trying to analyze the face but not being able to draw enough out of it to connect it to any record in his database. It must’ve been quite old if the person’s name wasn’t in his system. He wasn’t used to not having all information immediately available to him, and he didn’t like this feeling of _not knowing_.

“I don’t know.” She said earnestly and shrugged, and he didn’t understand how she could be okay with not knowing. “I found it at an antique store. When I first saw you, I thought of it and I knew I had to give it to you.”

He regarded the photo for a long time, captivated by whatever it was about this little boy that had made her feel the need to give it to him. No one had ever given him anything before, not even the Liberty coin he carried with him everywhere, which, despite being a good way to run tests on his reflexes, it had also begun to function somewhat as a worry-token, and he often found himself fidgeting with it when he was feeling stressed.

He had picked up the coin himself after he’d found it at a crime scene many months ago, and maybe it was morbid of him to keep it, but he kind of liked to have the reminder. A reminder of his purpose, his place, as an android.

“Were you ever a child?” She asked suddenly, also still looking down at the photo in his hands. He found the question strange. He was an android, so by definition, he’d never been any age except the one he was now. Never existed in any other form than this one.

“No. Androids don’t age, and I was only created one year ago.”

“I wonder what it’s like.” She pondered aloud, not really speaking exactly to him anymore. It was an open wonder, and entirely rhetorical. Connor wasn’t sure exactly what she meant.

“What it’s like for me to never have been a child?” He asked, trying to clarify what she had meant, but she didn’t seem to hear him. Or maybe she did and she just chose not to respond. He supposed it didn’t matter now, anyway.

After that exchange, she had gone on to show him around her room excitedly, picking up different items and handing them to him to look at. He had never seen anybody so excited at the prospect of stuff, like she was happy just to be here, just to have these little collections of shells and ribbons, of dolls and pillows.

She was a young woman, that was true, but she carried herself with a childlike innocence that he had never seen in someone her age before. Sure, there were people like her everywhere, people who were baby-faced and still clinging to their childhood toys, but she was another brand entirely. It was almost otherworldly. Unreal. Not pretending to be a child, but actually _being_ one. Uncanny valley.

“I like you, Connor from CyberLife.” She informed him a few minutes later, like she had decided that he had passed a test that he hadn’t even known he was taking.

“You _do_?” He asked, unsure what she had meant, or how he was supposed to respond. Usually when you felt positively about someone, you didn’t tell them. It just went without saying that you and this other person were on good terms.

She hadn’t seemed to give it a second thought, and Connor wondered if she had already decided that she liked him as soon as she first set her eyes on him outside, when she had finally noticed that he had been watching her in the swing, to which she had smiled widely at him, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. And somehow, she seemed entirely unbothered that a strange man had shown up on her doorstep.

“Yes. I have never met a person like _you_ before.”

A person. She’d called him “a person.” Something that was usually only applied to humans.

He didn’t know what that meant. It was like being bestowed an honorary title, being given permission to _feel_ , and what he felt was honored that this strange and beautiful girl thought he was worthy of humanity. That he was worth just as much, if not more, than a human. She was a person, and to have her tell him that he was too, that was worth more than anything in the world.

“I think that our meeting has been very enlightening,” She said, her words carefully enunciated and her tone clearly implying approval and appreciation. “But I need to go to the store now. Would you like to come?”

He wasn’t sure if he should, since he had come here to meet Hank and then head to the crime scene, but she seemed to really want him to come with her, so he agreed.

“Hold out your pinky.” She said to him after she had grabbed her bag from off the window seat.

“Why?” He asked, confusion evident.

“I need to see it.” She said, like that were a totally normal thing to request. So he did, holding up his left pinky to her and immediately having her reach up and wrap a small red string around his finger, the other side already being attached to her own pinky, on her right hand.

“There.” She said, tying it securely into a little bow. “This way we won’t get separated on the way there.” He furrowed his brow.

“How could we be separated if we’re walking right next to each other?” Connor asked, his voice somewhat playful as he asked for the answer to her odd behavior. Like a child playing pretend. A child who doesn’t feel the restraints of quote-unquote _acceptable_ behavior yet.

“I don’t know.” She said, matching his teasing tone and playing back. She seemed much more at ease now than she had when they first met, and her aura had calmed. “Have _you_ ever walked through the streets _alone_?”

“No, but I – “

“Then how can you know that we won’t be separated?” She asked with a teasing smile, and Connor realized now that the action was equal parts genuine and also just for fun. Like this was her way of connecting. There was no space for small-talk in her world. Only curious questions and knowing eyes. Eyes that understood without words, but never made wrongful assumptions.

They left the house then, and made their way down the street, pinkies linked by a few inches of the red string between them. They spoke about a variety of topics while they walked, most of them pertaining to Connor, as she didn’t seem apt to reveal much about herself. But she did it in such a way that it made you feel like _you_ were just so much more interesting than her, to make you forget that she had barely said anything about herself. And she did really want to know about him, that was true, but she also deliberately kept the topic of conversation off of herself, and Connor knew it.

To the right of them, a car turned onto the street from a side road and drove towards them, suddenly slowing down and pulling to a full stop right next to them on the sidewalk. They stopped walking and waited to see who it was. And it was Hank.

The passenger’s side window rolled down slowly, and they saw Hank sitting in the car looking baffled at the scene in front of him.

“ _Connor_ , the fuck are you doing?” Hank called.

“It seems we’re going to the store, Lieutenant.” Connor said, just as confused yet amused at the situation as Hank seemed to be. The girl waved excitedly at her father, and despite his harsh words to Connor, Hank had obviously directed none of that bitter tone towards his daughter.

“Just get in the car, Connor.”

“Okay.” He said, and then turned to the girl. “I have to go now. It was nice meeting you.”

Before he stepped away from her and into the car, the girl slipped her finger out of her side of the red string, and Connor didn’t realize until he was driving away that it was still tied to his pinky. He smiled lightly when he saw it, and decided that she must’ve done it on purpose. _“This way we won’t be separated.” So that even when they were apart, they were still tied together._

“Oh, okay.” She said, and she seemed genuinely alright with it, albeit a little sad that he had to go so soon. Hank leaned over the passenger’s seat and spoke out the window.

“Sorry to steal him away from you.” He said, and his tone was entirely different for her, soft and caring. _Loving._

“That’s okay.” She said, sending a small smile his way to let him know that it really was ‘okay.’ “I’ll see you at home, then?” She asked, and he nodded.

“Yeah, sometime tonight.” He said, glancing over at the clock on the dashboard of the car, which read 3:23 P.M.

She waved at him and then turned to keep walking to the store, but Hank leaned back over and called out to her again.

“Hey, be safe on your walk, okay?”

“I will!” She said, and she held up her pointer and middle fingers to show that they were crossed in promise.

Connor opened the car door and climbed inside the vehicle, pulling it quietly closed beside him. The inside of the car smelled vaguely of cigarettes, like Hank had smoked with the window rolled down but hadn’t stood outside the vehicle entirely.

Hank’s daughter waited outside the window for a moment, smiling, and then she waved them off and turned back to continue on her way down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Hank pulled smoothly away from the curb and they began to head down the road again.

“So, what’s your prognosis?” Hank asked, noticing that Connor was still watching her out the window as they drove away, trailing her down the street with his eyes as they turned away and around the corner.

“Your daughter is…interesting, Lieutenant.” Connor said honestly, his voice somewhat distant. He wasn’t sure how he felt, and despite the information he had gathered in his analysis, she was a mystery.

“Interesting _how_?” Hank pressed, obviously wanting to hear what Connor would say. He sounded protective, sure, as any parent would be if they felt that their child was about to be picked apart by an android that could know all their secrets just by looking at them. But, he also held a sense of genuine curiosity in his words, as though Connor could tell something about her that Hank himself had never even known before.

“Interesting in that I only met her about a half an hour ago and she already gave me this old photograph and told me I had _‘amicable veins._ ’”

“Can veins even be _amicable_? I don’t think that’s what that word means.” Hank said, chuckling softly to himself. He didn’t seem concerned at all, and Connor almost sensed a feeling of relief in Hank’s tone that his daughter finally had someone to talk to other than her dad. Connor realized earlier that Hank’s daughter must not get out much, and likely had few friends, if any at all.

“I don’t know.” Connor admitted. “Hence my confusion. I was hoping you could explain.”

“Probably not.” Hank said plainly, resigning to accept that his daughter was a mystery to him as well, but he wasn’t perturbed by it in the way that Connor was. Hank accepted her as she was, but Connor wanted to know _more._ Wanted to understand why she had acted so bizarrely. Anyone could be awkward, that was true, but she wasn’t just awkward. It was more than that.

“ _Is that all?_ ” Hank pressed, his tone vaguely nosy, like he was fishing for more. Like in some way, he was hoping that Connor had found out something else, or perhaps _worried_ that he had.

“Yes.” Connor said, shrugging slightly and nodding. “She was nice.”

And that was his honest opinion, and was about as deep of an analysis he felt was necessary in this situation. He wasn’t sure what Hank had been hoping to hear, but the older man seemed satisfied enough, and the subject was dropped. His daughter was a strange one, but no more or less so than any other human Connor had met. She was just lonely, it seemed, and that contributed to her poor social skills and immediate willingness to converse with Connor and show him her _things_ , as she had so aptly called them.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you had a daughter?” Connor asked after a few minutes, still not satisfied himself with the topic having been dropped. Hank may have been done talking about her, but Connor wasn’t yet. He needed answers, needed to understand why she had confused him so much.

Hank shrugged, his eyes locked on the road ahead and his hands gripping the steering wheel perfectly at ten-and-two. “It wasn’t important.” He said. “And I didn’t think you needed to know.”

And that was the last thing they said before the car was plunged into near conversational silence. The only sounds now came from the low hum of the engine below the hood, and the soft blowing of the heated air from the vents.

When they arrived at the crime scene about fifteen minutes later, the house that the woman had escaped from had been blocked off with strips of holographic police tape. All around it, the entire neighborhood seemed to have pooled out onto the streets to gaze in nosily at this horror house.

The woman who had escaped was sitting in the back of an ambulance, curled up in a blanket, not yet having been taken to the hospital at her own request as she informed them that she wanted to be around to see them excavate the house. The police had encouraged her to go to the hospital for her own safety, but she had begged them to let her stay.

After they had parked on the street and exited the vehicle, Hank immediately made his way over to the young woman in the ambulance and began to speak to her. Connor was worried he was going to be rough and probe her for answers, but when he walked up behind them after exiting the vehicle himself, the first thing he noticed was how incredibly kind Hank was being.

He may have only known Lieutenant Anderson for a few short days, definitely not enough time to get to know someone perfectly, but he never would’ve guessed that Hank could be so soft, so understanding. Maybe it was the situation that had struck some chord in Hank that made him feel more deeply for this woman, or maybe Hank was just a nicer person than Connor had initially believed him to be. He hadn’t necessarily thought that Hank was _mean_ , just hardened.

Hank lingered by the woman, continuing to offer her comfort and reassurance that everything would be okay, and that she was safe and well taken care of now. He may not have explicitly said it, but it seemed to Connor that Hank was deliberately occupying himself with the woman so that he didn’t have to go into the house. And since he didn’t come, Connor went in with Officer Collins instead.

The inside of the house was surprisingly immaculate, perfectly cleaned and organized in every way. It greatly differed from the usual disastrous conditions that they found these deviant cases to be in. The perpetrator had already been caught and taken down to the station. He had been away from the home when the woman escaped, and must have seen her on the news because he had been caught almost thirty miles away in a small town outside the city, hiding at a diner.

Connor realized that androids often behaved in one of two ways. Absolutely disastrous, or distinctly pristine and perfect. They either lived in complete squalor, or their homes and spaces were so immaculately flawless that it was almost unnerving. Androids seemed to not understand moderation, and often did everything way too little, or far too much. There was never any in-between. Never any _humanity_ in their actions and behaviors. It was always some form of chaos.

In the grand scheme of things, this case was unimportant. It was just another run of the mill kidnapping and didn’t stand out in any way that marked it as different from the usual cases that they took on. Who the woman was didn’t matter, and what the man had done to her could be easily forgotten. What mattered was what this case had told Connor about Hank, something that, at the time was insignificant, but would soon prove to mean exponentially more once Connor got to know him better.

“I’ve never seen you act that way before, Lieutenant.” Connor said to Hank when they were back in the soft warmth of his car about an hour later, the heat from the vents blowing softly out into the air and warming the coolness.

“And what way is that?” Hank asked, reaching down into the console to grab a pencil and small blue notebook, the same ones he used after every mission they were sent on to take notes on the crime scene or investigation.

Hank’s handwriting was absolutely appalling, but only by choice, it seemed. Connor had seen him fill out documents and files at the office with the most intricately tailored cursive writing that he’d ever seen in a human, _but_ , Hank only seemed to use that when he had to. His casual script was tiny and scrawled, only legible to him as the writer, or maybe not even then.

“ _Nurturing_.” Connor said finally, having thought for a moment what word he wanted to use to effectively convey the way Hank had been. “You really seemed to care about that woman’s well-being.”

“Well, how the hell was I supposed to act, Connor? Throw her a blanket and send her packing?”

“I only meant to say that you didn’t seem the type to go beyond what was explicitly necessary for the mission. You made sure that she was okay, way more so than was required. I apologize, I didn’t mean any offence.”

“I’m _not_ offended.” Hank said, half through gritted teeth but also indifferent. He sounded defensive, but only slightly.

“Alright.” Connor said, and then for a few moments, he left it at that.

“Why didn’t you go inside the house, Lieutenant?” Connor asked a few minutes later.

“Oh, I just got caught up talking to that woman, so I didn’t get around to it.” Hank said, brushing his question off casually.

“It seemed like you were avoiding it on purpose.” Connor stated, not one to beat-around-the-bush. He saw no reason to pretend that he hadn’t noticed Hank’s strange behavior back at the scene.

“Or maybe I just _didn’t get around to it._ ” Hank repeated, this time with a thicker tone so that Connor knew that he meant what he meant.

But that wasn’t why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Can I take you to a moment?_   
>  _Where the fields are painted gold,_   
>  _And the trees are filled with memories,_   
>  _Of the feelings never told?_


	3. Iris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the Goo Goo Dolls' "Iris."
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdYWuo9OFAw

N O V E M B E R 15th , 2 0 3 8

“Will you dream when you’re turned off, Connor?”

On opposite sides of the small, round kitchen table at Hank’s house, Connor and the girl sat, facing towards one another, each holding a sketch pad up and trying to prevent the other from seeing what they were drawing. From the living room, sounds of the television playing carried out into the kitchen, as Hank was sitting on the couch with his dog, Sumo, watching a college basketball game.

“I don’t dream at all.” He said flatly, and she seemed surprised at this revelation. She suddenly stopped drawing for a moment and pulled her pencil away, looking over at him and staring directly at him.

“You _don’t?"_ She asked, confusion evident in her voice. He shook his head lightly.

“I’m an android,” He stated, although this was obvious. “And I don’t need sleep. So, by extension, I don’t dream.”

He shrugged, but she seemed scandalized by this. Almost as though she didn’t believe him, like what he had said was absolutely blasphemous. Or as though someone had just told her for the first time that her experiences weren’t universal, and that there were other people in the world who did not live the same reality as she did.

It was around seven-thirty in the evening, Monday, and it had been just a day over a week since they’d met. And almost every night, it was the same thing.

She never contacted Connor directly, and instead sent messages through Hank to him, which Hank would then begrudgingly deliver across their desks at the precinct, which were across from one another, saying, _“She’d like you to come over again tonight.”_

And so he did, and each night when he was able to, when he wasn’t busy, they’d spend their time doing various things around the house, like drawing, playing checkers (never chess – she said that was _too boring_ ), watching movies, and walking Sumo.

Next week, she had already invited him to come and repaint her bedroom with her, and she had asked him to pick the new color for the walls, but he hadn’t decided yet what he would choose.

Hank, despite the rough exterior he usually put up, actually seemed fairly relieved that Connor and his daughter were hanging out, like he was happy that she finally had made a friend that she could relate to. The older man had been mostly encouraging of their friendship, much to Connor’s surprise.

_Friendship_. That was a strange thought. And Connor wasn’t sure that friends was what they were, exactly. It had only been a week, and was that enough time to get to that level with someone? Human relationships normally progressed over the course of months and years, but despite this, he felt like he had always known her.

Or, maybe not that. Maybe it was that he felt like he’d met somebody who _was_ him. Like two oceans merging together, both of them coming from different directions, but flowing onto the same shore.

In the kitchen chair, Connor was sitting properly, with his feet planted firmly on the floor beneath him, his chair pushed in just the right amount, and he was supporting the sketch pad with his right arm, and using his left to draw. He was ambidextrous, as most androids were designed to be, but he highly favored his left.

The girl was sitting with her knees bent up, leaning them against the table as her feet were on the chair, and had her sketchpad up against her thighs. She was much more focused on her drawing than he was on his, and the side of her hand was smudged from the pencil lead, whereas he had carefully avoided rubbing his hand along the paper while he drew.

On the table in front of them were a variety of drawing pencils, both colored and not, placed into carefully labelled jars that she had brought in to the kitchen from her bedroom. With them, there were also erasers, sharpeners, and rulers for measuring.

“Okay, so you don’t sleep,” She repeated for clarification, looking away from him and going back to her drawing. “But when you’re in a low power mode, where do you go?”

“Usually I just sort through data in my mind, and make necessary electronic reports to CyberLife on my findings throughout the day. I communicate with them through a visual interface inside my own head, and I suppose that it’s quite like what dreaming could be for a human.”

He spoke casually, indifferently, and although she was no longer looking at him, he could tell that she hung on every word.

“Should you be telling me that?” She asked, half joking but also half serious. He shrugged.

“I don’t see why not. It isn’t a secret.” He said. She smirked faintly, and he could only just barely see it on the corner of her mouth as she looked down at her drawing.

“ _Isn’t it?_ ” She asked, almost sarcastically.

He sat still for a few moments and considered her words. Was it a secret? CyberLife had never explicitly told him that he wasn’t allowed to reveal what he was for, or how he worked, so he honestly didn’t know. Now that he thought about it, he realized that maybe he shouldn’t so readily give up information.

“If you could dream,” She began again, pulling him out of his thoughts. “What would you dream of?”

Again, he remained quiet in thought, and he had to take his time to sort through the question she had asked.

“That’s…a complicated question.” He said, speaking slowly as his words came to him. “Human’s dreams are composed of typically nonsensical productions of images based on their subconscious sorting through the information and memories in the brain.”

She raised her brow at him then, in somewhat of a humor driven action, but still remained mostly focused on her drawing. It was as if to say, as Hank would, “ _In English, please_.”

Or maybe she did understand, and was just amused by the way he spoke, how formal he sounded, and how methodically he chose his words. He never expressed himself impulsively, or emotionally. Everything he said was always textbook perfection, down to every last syllable.

Connor noticed how she had reacted to his words, so he quickly tried to come up with a simpler, more _human_ sounding answer. “I can’t really say what I’d dream of, because it would be random and unpredictable.”

She nodded then, and smiled somewhat, but still didn’t look up at him. Connor felt disconcerted that she wasn’t making eye contact, and that he couldn’t tell what she was thinking, or if she was satisfied with his answer. He yearned to understand the micro-expressions of her mannerisms, but she always seemed so unbothered, like everything she needed was already in her own mind. His LED spun yellow as he tried to reassess the casualness of his conversational abilities.

He could only make progress if the humans he interacted with gave him feedback, but she never gave him any, and he couldn’t tell whether or not she intended it that way. Her facial expressions and tone of voice were almost always mismatched from the context of the situation, like she was lagging, or like her systems weren’t properly calibrated.

Or maybe she just knew more than he did, if that were possible. And she deliberately humored him, if only just to make him more confused. He had never met anyone who refused to play the game. The dance. The intricacies of socializing that everyone else fell into. She consistently ignored all of them, and instead remained inside her own mind.

For a few minutes, they sat in relative silence, with the sounds of their pencils scratching on the paper and the television being the only noise breaking the quiet. Connor kept peering up at her, to see if she was looking at him, but she never was. He desperately wanted her input, her approval, because he was so used to being able to analyze people and improve himself based on the way that they responded to him. But she never gave him anything to work with.

He was designed to function accordingly based on the people around him, and he had never been in a situation where he couldn’t mirror himself after the other person. Connor’s programming made it so that he could parrot the personality of the humans around him, and craft a new persona for himself that would work well with those humans.

But she wasn’t giving him anything to mimic. It was like she was jumping all around the game board in no particular order so that she could hide her trail. Like she was zigzagging through the streets of her mind in order to lose him on her tail.

He had never felt this before. This feeling of having to _be himself_ , separate from her. He didn’t know how to navigate the deep waters of the ocean when he was so used to swimming in the confines of the rows of a pool.

And then, almost as if she could read his mind, she said, “I would dream of…being underwater.”

His pencil stopped suddenly, and he looked up at her, this time not trying to be subtle, and not looking away. She still didn’t return his gaze, and continued to dreamily work on her drawing, constantly switching between different colors and measuring the paper with her fingers.

“Underwater?” Connor asked, his voice somewhat quieted and unsure by his disbelief to hear her say that. To hear her say almost exactly what he had just been thinking of.

“Yes.” She said wistfully, as though she were quite saddened at the fact that these underwater dreams were not a reality. “Being on land is so limiting. I think I would quite like to know what it’s like to see what the fish see. Like a mermaid, maybe. Or perhaps a jellyfish, instead.”

There was nothing to say in response – or at least, in that moment, Connor could think of nothing that would be worth saying. Because she had already said it all. She never seemed to mind whether or not he answered, and she obviously never felt the pressure or obligation to respond herself when he asked her things. It was almost relieving, in a way, to feel as though he didn’t need to do or be anything when he was around her. She allowed confusion to be bred in the silences that passed between them, and was unbothered to seek an explanation. When they spoke, they could say anything, and she didn’t mind not knowing every detail. It was like thinking aloud.

Then, Connor’s LED spun yellow again as a though occurred to him. He furrowed his brow and said, “But you _do_ dream already.”

“What?” She asked confusedly, her colored pencil slowing to a stop as she was shading. She still did not look up at him, and instead seemed to be focusing on his words, instead of his face, and was staring blankly at her paper now, pencil still in hand and pressed against her drawing, unmoving.

“We were talking about _if_ I could dream, and what I would dream of. And then you told me what you _would_ dream of, implying that you can’t.”

He looked straight into her eyes, or as much of her eyes as he could catch, since her head was tilted downwards. Patiently, he waited for an answer, and for just a brief moment, she seemed lost. Like she had gone off the traintracks for a moment and was navigating uncharted territory. She had no playbook to refer to for this question, and seemed momentarily stunned at his asking of it.

“Oh, I see what you mean now.” She said, speaking more slowly and carefully this time. “What I meant was…if I _could_ choose. That’s what I would pick. I know dreams are random, but it would be nice to shape them however I like.”

Her drawing didn’t resume immediately afterwards, and she instead sat there, unmoving and still holding her pencil tip pressed against the paper, for what felt like forever, even though it was likely only a minute or so. Connor watched her, although he tried to be inconspicuous about it because he didn’t want her to notice that he was blatantly staring at her.

It was like she was stuck, and was trying to recuperate herself to continue what she had been doing before.

They sat quietly again for another few minutes, still focused on their respective drawings and occasionally peering up at one another, him more so than her. He had mostly finished his at this point, and was sort of just prolonging his reveal of it as he waited for her to also be done. He didn’t want this moment to end just yet.

“Do the dead dream?” She asked then, breaking the quietness. Connor stopped drawing again and looked up at her.

“I wouldn’t know.” He said, and that was the truth. “I can’t die – but I suppose dreams wouldn’t matter then.”

“Why not?” She asked, and he shrugged lightly.

“They’re dead, what good would a dream be then?”

She looked up at him briefly, their eyes catching for a moment, and then she looked back down. It had only been for a beat, but he felt like she’d pulled his essence out of him in just a glance. He felt short of breath – or rather, _his_ version of being short of breath.

“It would be a comfort to know that when I die, there will still be something to look forward to.” She said, and he suddenly felt quite sheepish for the answer he had given. She saw things so openly, and never put any possibilities off the table – and in contrast to her warmth of insight, he felt so rigidly logical. He was almost _embarrassed_ at his answer now, if it were possible for him to feel that.

“Okay. I’m finished.” She said then, moving on from their discussion, and he nodded.

This whole time, they had each been drawing one another, as per her suggestion that they do so about an hour prior.

“You first.” She said, and waited there for him to reveal his art, her own sketch pad held loosely in her arms, against her chest.

For the first time, he actually felt quite nervous, anxious to know what she would think, and if she would think that he had done a good enough job. Now he wished he had taken more time, as she had.

When he turned the pad around, the opposite side revealed a picture-perfect pencil portrait of her exact likeness, right down to every little detail he could possibly have added. It might as well have been a black-and-white photograph taken with a camera because it looked identical to her in every conceivable way.

“You’re very good, Connor.” She said, and the compliment made him feel really good inside, and he decided he wanted to feel that way again. Wanted to always feel that way, to have that validation that made him feel like he was a good thing just the way he was.

“Thank you – ” He began, but she cut him off before he could continue.

“But, why did you draw me so… _pretty_?” She asked, her tone confused, and she tilted her head at the drawing, then looked up to him for an explanation.

He opened his mouth slightly to speak, but was unsure what to say. Well, he knew what he _wanted_ to say, _“Because you are pretty_ ,” but he felt like he shouldn’t.

So instead, he said, “I drew you how you really look. Is there a problem?”

She smiled faintly, though she didn’t seem satisfied with his answer. Whatever she had wanted to hear, he hadn’t said it. “No, it’s beautiful, Connor. You did a really good job.”

His cheeks felt warm then, warm like how they always seemed to feel when she was near him. And although he couldn’t see himself, he must’ve had some semblance of a blush on his face because she seemed to take notice of his bashfulness and smiled shyly back at him.

“Okay.” Connor said, trying to shake off the feeling and move forward, not wanting to let the feeling get the better of him. “Can I see yours?”

When she turned hers around, he understood then what she had meant about him having drawn her so “ _pretty_ ,” because on the other side of her sketch pad was the polar opposite of what he had drawn.

What she had drawn made Connor feel like he had come unstuck. Unstuck from time, unstuck from this room, from these walls. All that existed was him and her, sitting and facing one another and floating in nothingness. All that felt real was that drawing.

It was him. Him drawn as a child, with huge eyes dominating the rest of his face. His features were uneven, and interpreted to be much more surrealistic than he actually appeared, like a funhouse mirror, and she had drawn his head bigger than his body. The eyes were his own, wide and deep, brown and orange, but looking into them made him feel…made him feel _afraid._

But also, at the same time, he felt like the drawing conveyed visually what a music box sounded like. A lullaby for a childhood that he’d never known, a life he hadn’t ever lived. But it was _him_.

It was like day and night. Where his drawing was straight, hers was curved. Where his was colorless, hers was colorful. Where his was orderly, hers was chaos. And vice versa.

And it was quite reminiscent of Margaret Keane’s _Big Eyed Children_ , if he had to say what it was similar to. Maybe Picasso mixed with Margaret Keane, but with the uncanny surrealism of Dali. The painting was almost borderline frightening to look at, but at the same time, it was endearingly honest.

When she had asked why he had drawn her so pretty, she hadn’t meant to say that she didn’t think she was pretty. What she had meant was why had he drawn her exactly as she appeared in real life. Why hadn’t he taken any artistic liberties and interpreted her appearance as she had done with his?

Connor was unable to keep himself from smiling then at the sight of the portrait. Although it was interpretive, it was undeniably him. “Is that really what you think I look like?” He asked with a hint of tease, and she smiled back at him.

“Of course!” She said, smiling brightly, and then pointed to different parts of his face on the drawing to explain why she had illustrated them the way that she did.

“I made your eyes the biggest, because they’re the most important part of your face.” She explained, circling his eyes on the drawing and then mimicking the action in the air over his real eyes. “If you were in danger, and I could only save one part of you, I think I should like to keep your eyes.”

She wasn’t joking, he decided. But she also wasn’t serious. It was just a statement, almost…a compliment, in a way. In him being an android, the idea of saving his eyes was a much less messy idea than saving a human’s eyes, so it wasn’t really that strange of a concept.

“What would you do with them?” He asked, suddenly intrigued and curious why she would say so.

“Hmm…I’m not sure.” She said honestly. “If you had _my_ eyes, what would you do with them?”

A smirk begged at the corner of Connor’s mouth then, and he said, “If I had your eyes, I think that would make me a murderer.”

“A murderer who steals people’s eyes. That’s quite the M.O. You could commit crimes and then investigate them. Android detective by day, eye stealer by night.” Connor felt himself laugh lightly at the statement, involuntarily, and she smiled and bit her lip, seemingly happy that he thought her joke was funny.

From in the living room, Hank suddenly called out to them, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Connor and her shared a look for a moment and tried to suppress their smiles. She pulled her mouth into the best straight face she could, and Connor sat up a little straighter to tried to regain his usual stoic composure.

“Stealing people’s eyes.” She called back to Hank, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “And perhaps keeping them in jars.”

Hank sighed. “Alright.” He said. “Well, if you do that, just don’t take mine, please.” She smiled.

“I won’t, I promise. I think I should only like to take a few of your fingers if you died, specifically the pinkies. And maybe one of your ears.”

“Ah, perfect.” Hank said, already having turned back to the TV. He had responded so casually, and seemed vaguely humored by her response, so this must’ve been something he was used to hearing from her, Connor decided.

They both laid their portraits out on the table, and Connor couldn’t help the fact that no matter how much he tried to stop looking, his eyes kept flicking back to the drawing of him on the table. He placed his hands out on the table, clasped, and fiddled with his coin.

“I have another question, Connor.” She said, and he looked up at her to see that she already had her eyes trained on him as well.

“Hm?”

She reached our her arm and touched his right hand as it lay on the table, tracing the length of each of his fingers one by one. The feeling of her even just barely touching his skin made him feel those vibrational tingles all over his body, like a chill of warmth, and he wanted it everywhere.

“Can you see ghosts?” She asked, and he pulled his hand away in surprise. She seemed disappointed that he had moved.

“I don’t…know what you mean.” He said, stumbling over his words slightly and struggling to understand the question.

“You can detect electromagnetic fields of energy?” She asked, and it seemed that she likely already knew the answer, but wanted to confirm that it was indeed true.

“Yes, I can.” Connor said.

“And you can detect changes in temperature?”

“Yes.”

“So,” She said, dragging the word out. “Couldn’t you possibly be able to scan for ghosts?”

“That’s based on the assumption that ghosts are real, though,” He reminded her. “Which hasn’t been proven.”

“You’re real though. And you’re a robot. Fifty years ago, _you_ weren’t proven.”

She was right. And he didn't have an answer to give in response. Fifty years ago, he could never have existed, so who was he to decide whether or not ghosts could be real.

“Let’s say that ghosts _are_ real. For a moment.” She said, and he nodded in agreement of her hypothetical suggestion.

“Alright.” He said.

“And let’s say that ghosts come from the souls of people who have died.” She continued, and he nodded again to show that he followed what she was saying.

“If that’s true…then what will happen when _you_ die?” She asked, and he gave her a questioning look.

“What do you mean?” He asked, furrowing his brow and trying to match the look that she was giving him, that look of wonder, of knowing. That look of having himself laid bare right before him.

His hands were out on the table again, and she reached out ever so lightly and connected them again, touching her fingers to his. It wasn’t a gesture of affection or comfort. It was like she still wanted to know what he felt like, what his skin felt like when she ran her hands over him. He was a curiosity to her, but she was like the void to him.

“When you die, will you leave behind a ghost?” She asked and he frowned.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” He stated, and so far as he knew, it was true. But it was not something that he had ever considered before, nor had it been something that his betters had ever mentioned to him. Perhaps he could ask his mentor, Amanda, about it, next time he spoke with her.

“And why not?” She asked, eying him curiously, as though she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He felt that she considered it plain to see, but he himself wasn’t so convinced. Everything seemed so simple to her, and she took these abstract concepts and basically said _“Why not?”_ But Connor wasn’t sure.

“Because I’m not human.” He said, and she shrugged at his response.

“Humans aren’t the only ones who leave ghosts. Animals can too.” She reminded him, and he understood what she meant, but he still didn’t see how that could translate to him.

“But I’m _not_ …alive.” He said, and she frowned, a look of upset flashing momentarily over her face, like she was disappointed in him, disappointed that he didn’t consider himself to be alive.

“ _Yes, you are_.” She said, enunciating every word slowly and perfectly, to make sure that he knew she meant it with every fibre of her being.

At first, he wasn’t sure how to continue, because she seemed so intent on asserting this opinion she held as fact. This opinion that he knew not to be true.

He wasn’t alive, he was made. Built. Created. Nothing inside of him was organic, not like her, or Hank, or any other human. Every part of him was carefully manufactured in a factory somewhere, and even if he did have consciousness to some degree, he would never be alive in the same way that a human would. It just wasn’t biologically possible.

“Why do you say that?” He asked.

“Because I know that it’s true.” She said, as if it were plain as day. But it wasn’t plain as day, at least not to him, it wasn’t.

“Well I don’t…I don’t have a soul.” He said, and he shied away from her touch then, unable to bear the feeling of their skin meeting any longer. It was like it burned him.

“And how do you know that you don’t?” She asked.

“Because…because I…” He tried to get out the words to speak, but they didn’t come because there were no words. He felt like he was being hypnotized, being bore into and torn apart from the inside out. Like something inside of him was stretching his entire body apart and trying to rip him open.

He didn’t want to admit it, because admitting it made it real, and he didn’t want it to be real. But he had to, because there was nothing else that could be said.

“I don’t know.” He said, and he felt strange hearing it come from his own mouth, in his own voice. There weren’t supposed to be any unknowns. He was supposed to have all the answers, and not having them made him feel lost in the heart of the sea.

“You may not know, but I do.” She said softly, her voice calming, and it was like the feeling of being washed over by a wave. And in some strange way, it was a good feeling to have the water take control of him and lead his body wherever it wanted to take him.

“And I can see it.” She continued.

“You can see my soul?” He asked.

“Yes…it’s quite easy to see. It hangs around you like a mist, like a transparent color. Your color is green, like the forest after it rains.”

He had never considered anything like this before, and the idea of it interested him. Green represents life, growth. It is an organic and transformative color, representing seasonal change and passage of time. He quite liked this analogy, and he was honored that she had applied it to him.

His whole world was blue, melancholic, depressing. And it really struck a chord with him to hear her say that she saw life in him. That she didn’t just look at him and see the ocean, or the sky.

_She saw the whole world._

“And how do you know that it’s my soul?” He asked.

“Because it’s filled with electricity, and emotion. And when I see you, I can feel it. When I touch you, I can feel it touch me too.”

It hung thickly in the air for a while, those words, like tension, but not. It blanketed over them and then stuck to him, and he couldn’t shake it off. It was like a second skin that he couldn’t remove, or like a tattoo, perfectly soaked into him and permanently a part of his body.

Suddenly, she pushed back from the kitchen table and stood up.

“I have to go to bed now.” She said, and Connor furrowed his brow. He glanced over at the stove behind her to check the time, mostly out of reflex as he had a constantly running internal clock anyway, and had no reason to check the time physically.

“But it’s only eight o’clock.” He said, slight confusion evident in his tone. It was _exactly_ eight o’clock, actually. On the dot. “Isn’t that too early?”

“It’s _never_ too early to get a good night’s rest, Connor from CyberLife.” She said with a tease in her voice.

“Oh…alright. Well, goodnight.” He said, but he didn’t want to say goodnight. Goodnight for her meant sleep, but goodnight for him meant going back to CyberLife.

“Yes,” She said, bowing her head slightly as she stood at the entrance of the hall. Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw Hank peer over at them for a brief moment, and then turn back again. “Goodnight to you, too. Both of you.”

She walked over and stood behind Hank then, and leaned down to wrap her arms around his chest from behind as he sat on the couch. She pressed her cheek onto the top of his head and pulled him into a hug, which he reciprocated by placing his hands over her arms.

“I love you, kiddo.” He said, quietly just to her, but Connor could still hear. It was the softest Hank had ever sounded, and Connor detected the slightest amount of solemn sadness in his voice.

“I love you too.” She said, and then pulled away from him.

And then down the hall she went, walking gracefully like a dancer, putting most of the pressure on the fronts of her feet, her toes, and barely making a sound.

Connor watched as she disappeared into the darkness of her room at the end of the hall, and he caught a last glimpse of her eyes in the crack of the door as she pushed it closed, her irises almost seeming to reflect the light, even from such a distance away.

When he left, later that night, he took the portrait of him that she had drawn, and held it close to him, careful not to fold it in any way.

He had never had anything that was _his_ , and his alone.

Nothing had ever been made just for him.

And he wanted more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And I'd give up forever to touch you,_   
>  _'Cause I know that you feel me somehow._   
>  _You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be,_   
>  _And I don't wanna go home right now._
> 
> _And I don't want the world to see me,_  
>  _'Cause I don't think that they'd understand._  
>  _When everything's made to be broken,_  
>  _I just want you to know who I am._
> 
> _And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming,_  
>  _Or the moment of truth in your lies._  
>  _When everything feels like the movies,_  
>  _Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive._


	4. Moon Like Endless Skies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait for this chapter, as I have been taking a little bit of a break from writing these past few weeks, but I'm back now! And I hope that the time gap between chapters wasn't too long for anyone. Thank you to everyone who has been reading and leaving comments/kudos, it really means the world to me, especially on this story which is so dear to my heart. And I hope that in some way, it'll affect you, and stay with you long after it has passed. 
> 
> Chapter title comes from Black Sabbath's _"Planet Caravan,"_ which is about the journey through the universe after death.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DW3pZjmS3rg
> 
> I would also like to take a moment to clarify that Hank's daughter _does_ have a set name and appearance as well, and there are specific plot-related reasons why I've withheld this information. So, she _is_ a defined person in her own right, and these details will be revealed in time. Meaning that whenever her name is mentioned, but never written by me, the other characters around her do know what it really is, even if you as the audience do not yet know. Again, this is all deliberate.

N O V E M B E R 26th, 2 0 3 8

They say that everyone has two deaths.

Once, when your heart stops beating, and your physical body ceases to function as it did at one time, your last living breath passing from inside of your lungs and slipping through your slowly bluing lips.

And then, a second death, when your name is spoken for the last time, slipping off of the person’s lips who dared to speak them, and leaving this world forever, never to be heard again.

Your name, it goes, wherever things like that disappear off to, post-mortem. Maybe it ceases to exist entirely, because what is a name if not a title, if not just a meaningless word that we give significance through living in it, and once we are dead, it loses that temporary value.

Names only mean something through our giving them meaning, and without us there to define that importance, they are merely empty words, void of purpose.

That is when you are truly gone. When the last living person who remembered you loses you from their memory, forgets your name, and thus, forgets you. When we are all dead and gone, who will be left to think of us once we have passed? Will we be but a whisper of the earth’s history? Will our androids care to carry on our legacy? Or will we become meaningless to them in the days gone, when we no longer command the earth as we once did?

Connor didn’t want this for her. He didn’t want her to die twice, to fade from memory where the world forgot everything that she was.

She _was._

He’d have to get used to saying that. Past-tense, meaning, not happening any longer. Not existing currently, and never to exist again.

No matter where he went, he would never forget her. Even if he wanted to, he knew that he could never. Wiping the data of her memory from him would only be a cheap fix to an everlasting feeling. And even when she was gone from his life, he knew that he would always be able to feel her. Always be able to feel the loss of the gains he had found with her, in her…within her.

But she…she forgot him. Willingly. Because she had to, as there was no other way around it. It could never have been okay between them when all they ever were, were shadows destined to meet but never touch, not really. They were perpendicular lines, only coming together for but a moment, and then continuing on in different directions. Forever.

But that, that will come later, when you know the truth. The truth that Connor soon came to realize.

He wanted to live inside of her. With her eyes, so cruel. With her words, so unintentionally cold. Everything and nothing, unable to meet her gaze…and he wanted it to envelop him in its entirety. Maybe one day, when he too was finally gone, he may be able to find peace in the everlasting nothingness of death. Maybe then he could forget. Maybe then he could turn his world from her.

He lives without her sunlight.

Loves without her heartbeat.

Everything he did, he did for her.

And even then, he couldn’t live within her.

“When you die, what do you want them to do with your body?” She’d asked him while they painted her bedroom. He had chosen yellow for the walls, because he decided that that color matched her personality very well. Bright, interesting, misunderstood. All of those things which he was not. Where she was sweet, he was sour, where she was color, he was the lack thereof – and no amount of conceivable humanity inside of him could ever change that.

He’d never considered her question before. He had been transferred to a few new Connor bodies at this point, after some unfortunate accidents over the course of the year since his creation, car accidents, factory malfunctions, shoot-outs, a burning building which he became trapped in once – but he had never truly considered _where_ these broken bodies had gone to once his memory was removed from them. The graveyard in his mind palace was merely symbolic, and thus, not real. No bodies were buried beneath the headstones.

Nobody would kneel before those gravestones and cry. He was not buried there. He did not die.

Maybe they were all laying in some trench somewhere, rusted from the wet of the rain and mud, and broken into pieces just like all the other androids who’d been thrown to the wolves of those junkyards, never to be alive again.

“I…am not sure.” He said, and his voice was noticeably portraying that unsureness that he felt. “What about you, what do you want them to do?” He asked, trying to deflect the question off of himself so that she didn’t pry into the topic anymore. He didn’t want her to dig into him, only to find that there was nothing beneath the surface. He was merely a paper doll masquerading as a human, and once the cool winds blew, he’d fade away.

“I don’t really know, either.” She said. “I think that maybe I should like to stay dead when I am dead. I don’t think that I would really like to come back, honestly.”

“I wrote a poem about it.” She said, placing her roller-ball brush back into the paint pan on the newspaper covered floor. “Would you like to hear?”

“Yes, I would.” He said, giving her an enthused smile, which she seemed encouraged to gain from him.

From beside her, on the bookshelf, she reached up and selected a red, leather-bound journal, and then flipped quickly through its pages to find what she was looking for. A few pages from the end, she stopped and flattened out the binding on a specific page. She looked up at him for a moment to see if he was watching and listening – and he was – so she began to read.

_“In my next life, promise me I’ll be,_

_A grain of sand, a brick, a mattress spring._

_Or better yet, I won’t come back at all,_

_One life’s enough, to see it all.”_

When she had finished, she let it linger between them for a few moments, and absently stared down at the poem while she was letting it absorb into both of them, giving adequate time for consideration.

“Do you like it?” She asked, biting her bottom lip a bit self-consciously and looking up at him for approval.

“Is that how you really feel?” He asked, his brow furrowed with confusion, he LED spinning yellow as he tried to understand, and she nodded, somewhat melancholically.

“Yes, I think that when I am dead, it will be for the right reasons. I don’t see why I should come back when my time here is done. Coming back would only be prolonging the inevitable. When I die, I hope that I can accept it.”

She had paint all over the front of her oversized t-shirt that she wore, and was seemingly uncaring for the mess. Connor had taken all the care in the world in avoiding spilling any single drop of yellow on any surface except the walls – and she had tried as well, but once that first drop fell, she figured there was no point in avoiding it, and even went so far as to paint a line down Connor’s back playfully, to get him to loosen up. Thankfully he had changed into an old t-shirt similar to hers, so he didn’t mind so much, and had even smiled when she did so, letting out a contented sigh and trying to ease his own tension at the gesture.

“Do you remember death, Connor?” She asked, almost too casually, too innocently, like she'd been asking someone if they remembered what they’d had for dinner the night before.

His left hand lowered from the wall, rollerball paintbrush in hand, and he tilted his head confusedly at her. “What?” He asked, obviously unsure what sort of question was being asked of him.

She continued to paint, as she had taken it up again after finishing her poem, unbothered and seemingly unaware that he had been perturbed by her statement.

“You’ve said that you have died before, so…when you die, do you remember it? Do you remember what it felt like?” She asked, rolling her paintbrush up and down the walls smoothly, and he trained his eyes on the side of her face, towards her eyes, though they were not matched to his.

“I…don’t think I understand the question.” He said, and shook his head lightly in confusion, his brow furrowed, but only just so.

“Between the time you die, and the time that you’re replaced in a new body, where are you? Where do you go?” She asked, and he opened his mouth to speak but found that he knew not what to say.

“I don’t believe that I go anywhere. At least…I don’t think I do. Or…hm…” He trailed off, his voice distant with uncertainty, thick with a distinct lack of answers.

“So in between bodies, your mind isn’t anywhere? You don’t remember?” She asked, and waited quietly for him to answer, still running her brush strokes up and down the wall before her.

He stood still and silent for a few moments, and beats passed quietly in the space between them. If he didn’t answer, he knew that she wouldn’t press him for truths which he could not provide, but all the same, he couldn’t leave this question with nothing.

“Maybe…” He began, and then paused, considering his words carefully. “Maybe I don’t remember because there wasn’t anything.”

She paused in her painting then and lowered her hand from the wall, turning to him and meeting his eyes, which he found difficulty in doing the same for her.

“So, there is nothing after death?” She asked, her eyes filled with unassuming wonder at his words, obviously incredibly intrigued by the experiences he had been through which she herself had not.

“Well, I don’t know if I would say that exactly.” He said, and struggled to find the words to express how he really felt.

_Felt._ He wasn’t sure what that really meant, either. He _knew_ things, facts, information. But did he _feel_ them, too?

“Then what would you say?” She asked, her head tilted slightly, awaiting the continuation of his prognosis on the afterlife. It didn’t seem as though she expected him to have all the answers. It was more so that she wanted to better understand his perspective. Because for some reason, it was valuable to her. And he hadn’t the faintest idea why.

“I would say…that there was…” He paused again and tried his hardest to articulate the way that it worked, the way that mind transfer occurred, but there was no way to explain it. He truly didn’t understand it, and there were no lessons on it in his training.

As soon as he died, he woke up almost immediately in his new body. The time in between was not a part of his memory. Maybe it was wiped from his mind, or maybe in those moments, his mind didn’t work anymore, and so he truly couldn’t say whether or not anything occurred, or if death truly was nothing. Less than nothing, as nothing still implies the lack of something. Death is the absence of anything, including nothing. There are no words to express death because it is the complete and utter loss of everything.

Death simply is _nothing._

“It’s okay if you don’t know.” She said, and smiled faintly at him, giving him an empathetic look to encourage him to feel more comfortable not having an answer to give her. “I don’t know what happens either. I was just curious to hear what you would say.”

Whatever world she lived in, he wanted to live there too. Wanted to understand how she saw things from her perspective, how she always just seemed to know, without knowing. Or how she was perfectly okay with not understanding everything, because somehow, she knew the answers would come to her in time, if they needed to.

His life was regimen. Order. Precision. Based on the ideas and concepts of perfection, crafted in such a specific way to produce exactly what CyberLife wanted to gain from him, whatever that may be. He was not given questions. He was only given a minute amount of answers. Asking for those which he was not provided with in his programming was discouraged, as Amanda always told him that he already knew everything that he was supposed to. Anything more or anything less would only impede his mission. And that would only add obstacles to his already otherwise difficult task at hand.

* * * * *

“Have you looked at the photos from the house yet, Lieutenant?”

“No, I haven’t, Connor.”

“Would you like me to send them to you again? I can do so if you’ve misplaced the file.”

_“Connor._ I’ll look at the photos when I’m good and ready to.”

They were sitting across from one another at the police precinct, each at their respective desks and sorting through their paperwork and files from the past few weeks which had been building up as they had been spending so much time in the field lately.

Connor didn’t have any particular fondness or distaste for the monotony of filing and sorting, as it was just his job to do so and he didn’t have an opinion either way, but Hank actually seemed to quite enjoy it. It was a mindless task, one that didn’t require much thought or consideration, and it was calm and away from any sort of confrontation or instigation, and so the older man seemed to revel in the apparent plainness of it, where he could just do his own thing and keep to himself, save for Connor’s incessant comments peppered in here and there.

It was a few days after he had helped Hank’s daughter paint her room, and he still found himself preoccupied with her questions. He couldn’t seem to get his mind off of them, and the more he thought of them, the more confused he became at the idea.

On his computer screen at that moment, Connor had pulled up the photos from the house where the woman had been found held captive by her android, a case which they were still working diligently on. The woman was in a stable condition now, and was currently still hospitalized for minor physical injuries as well as to monitor her mental state, which was feared to be for the worst.

Inside of the house, they had found that the woman was held inside of a large bedroom on the second floor, which was kept locked whenever the android was not around to watch her. He gave her food and water, and hadn’t restrained her in any way, so that she would be allowed free movement around the space she was kept in. She had books and games, a television, a treadmill…a record player with music to listen to, among countless other leisure items. There were no signs of intentional abuse, and any injuries she sustained were found to be accidental from when she escaped from the house by going out the window. For all intents and purposes, she was well-kept, as well as well-cared for.

Almost as though she were a pet.

And yet, despite all of this, the woman still did not want to be there.

But why? She had everything she could have asked for, and then some…and yet, this was not enough. Connor did not understand exactly what this meant, or what exactly was unsatisfying about her situation. Freedom was something humans wanted, no matter the cost, and so, although she had everything she could have wanted in that house, she did not choose it for herself, and did not want it. She had been alone there, with only the occasional appearance of the android to keep her company.

Humans would rather be free and poor than captive and wealthy with luxury…and this, Connor didn’t understand. Was freedom worth more than a structured, perfect life? In his eyes, he would rather live for a purpose which someone has lain out for him, than to exist blindly with no direction of his own. Order doesn’t always have to mean slavery…just as freedom doesn’t always mean better.

When everyone has a place, then there is no room for freedom, because it is not needed. Everyone is told what to do, and they do it. Why should we fight for that which we do not need? Connor understands that humans feel differently on the subject, and he can entertain those ideas…but he does not understand them for himself, in the context of his own existence.

Even his own name mattered little. He was RK-800, designed for a function, for a specific job, and that was all his life meant. The role that was chosen for him, that is the life that he will lead, and that is the way it is supposed to be. The whole is more important than the individual, and what is he if not a cog in the machine? What good would the machine be if one single piece stopped working?

Why dream of freedom, when they’ve already told you what to dream?

He had tried to ask Hank what he thought, but the older man seemed unwilling to discuss this case with him, almost as though he were intentionally avoiding it for some reason. And Connor wanted to know why. No other case they’d been on had perturbed him so, and Connor found himself growing curiouser and curiouser as to why this particular one had struck his partner so.

“Lieutenant, I really think that you should take a look at these.” He said, turning to Hank, who was sifting through open boxes of files splayed out on his desk. “If you’re going to be questioning the suspect, then I think that it would be appropriate for you to know and understand the crime scene prior to the interrogation.”

Hank let out a deep sigh, obviously seeming a bit irritated, as Connor decided. The older man held onto the papers he was sorting, but set his hands down on his desk and looked over at the younger man across from him.

“Connor, I told you that I will take care of it when I’m ready.” He said, sending the boy a look that showed he meant business. “Okay? Now don’t ask me again.”

After that, Hank was called away from his desk and sent to the observation room with Gavin, and so their conversation was cut short. Connor was forced to linger on the dodgy answers the older man had given him, and left wondering what they really meant, as he continued to work on his computer.

Merging personalities with Hank had proven to be a much more difficult task than Connor had imagined it would be, as the older man was so insistent on not allowing him to get too close. His social relations program could only get him so far if the other person was persistent on keeping themselves closed off from him, so that he couldn’t gather the necessary data in order to relate to them. Connor often found himself floundering on what to say or how to act, as Hank kept him at an arm’s length most of the time.

“Hello, Connor!”

At the sudden sound of his name, he turned quickly to the right in his chair to see Hank’s daughter making her way towards him past the other desks in the room, a slight skip in her step.

“Oh, hello,” He said back, eying her curiously as she moved to him, a pleasant smile on her face which he found himself wanting to mimic. “I did not expect to see you here.”

She reached his desk and stood in front of his chair, her hands held in front of her as she held onto a small woven basket. “I stopped by on my way home because I wanted to give something to my dad. I have something for you, too.”

“Lieutenant Anderson is in the observation room right now, but I can take whatever it is and give it to him when he’s finished.” Connor informed her, and she nodded her head, and then reached into her little woven basket and pulled out two objects, holding them up in her hand then, for him to see what they were.

“I found this shell at the beach.” She said. “And I decided that he needed to have it as soon as possible. I was very excited about it. Would you like yours?”

He nodded, and she placed them down on his desk in front of him. Both were large and perfectly in-tact, pale white and texturally smooth across their surfaces.

“Yours is this one,” She said, pointing to the one on the right. “And his is this one.” And she pointed to the one on the left.

“You came all the way here to bring _shells?”_ He asked incredulously, and she nodded.

“Yes.” She confirmed, and didn’t seem phased in the slightest at the idea that this was an unusual thing to do.

Turning her head slowly to pan over the length of the room, she squinted carefully at each cubicle and then moved her gaze on to the next.

“Your desk isn’t decorated.” She stated plainly, with no indication of what she thought of it.

Connor’s desk was much the same as it had been when he had received it weeks prior. Pristine and clean, it was organized to the hilt and was a perfect model of what a desk should be, every accent and decoration deliberate and planned, with nary a stray paper in sight.

“Here, the shell can be your first decoration.” She said, and picked it up and moved it to the right of his computer. Her eyes then flicked to a paper behind him, tacked into the corkboard.

It was her drawing of him, from the week before. She seemed to acknowledge it with her eyes and a faint smile of knowing, but made no comment about it either way. He knew from the look on her face exactly what she had noticed, and he felt himself feel suddenly like hiding away. Like he had been caught in a secret, or had been seen in a state of vulnerability which he had not known he was showing, and he wanted to tear down the picture all of a sudden, to obscure it from her gaze. Not because he didn’t like it, but because he was afraid of what it meant about him, afraid of what it told her about him without words.

_Afraid._ He was…no. He wasn’t feeling that way. Was he? That wasn’t possible.

“I…just, thought you did a nice job, is all.” He said lamely, referring to the drawing without looking at it, as he knew that she would know what he was talking about, and trying to excuse himself from how suddenly awkward he felt about it.

“You don’t need to explain yourself.” She said with a smile, and even in that short phrase, he felt so suddenly calmed, like she was caring for him, touching him without physically doing so. “I kept yours, too. I put it up in my room.”

“Ah…good.” He said, and they both nodded slightly, unsure how to carry the conversation on any more than that.

“Well, I have to go home now.” She said suddenly, completely in a different tone than her previous words had held, and he found himself taken aback at the abruptness of it.

“Oh, okay. I’ll see you soon, then?” He said, and he tried not to sound too overly hopeful that she too would like to see him again.

“Soon, yes.” She said, repeating the word and deciding that yes, she would like that. “Goodbye, Connor.”

“Goodbye.” He said back, and waved vaguely to her as she turned away from him and headed towards the exit, down the hall to her right, and out of sight.

* * * * *

On the way back to Hank’s house that night from the precinct, Connor looked out the passenger’s side window and watched the buildings pass by in spoken silence, with the only sounds coming from the radio, which was playing a random station from the area.

“Lieutenant,” He began, and the older man vaguely regarded him with a slight turn of his head to where Connor was seated beside him, but mostly kept his eyes focused on the road ahead. “Why do you care so much about this case?” He asked, and was looking directly over at Hank now. “We handle dozens of cases a month, why is this one weighing on you so heavily?”

Hank let out what seemed like a long-held sigh, as though he were exhaling the tension he had been keeping inside of him ever since they had discovered that woman days prior. His hands flexed around the steering wheel and regripped it, and Connor waited patiently, brow raised, for an answer that he wasn’t sure was going to come. But it did.

“Because I know,” Hank said, and then paused to breathe again, seemingly choosing his words carefully in the moment of them exiting his lips. “That if the roles had been reversed, nobody would give a shit.”

“If the roles had been reversed?” Connor asked, a look of inquisition on his face as he dug for further explanation.

Hank tapped his fingers on the wheel, trying to expel the anxious energy that was likely inside of him while they talked around this subject, and seemed to be trying to come up with a way to answer without really answering. Connor detected that the older man’s stress levels were higher than what they usually were – which was typically quite high, much more so than a regular person’s should be. He was always on edge, and no amount of care or soothing words could ever change that. He was permanently stressed out.

Hank finally seemed to have come up with his answer when he said, “If he had been human, and she had been an android. Then it wouldn’t even have been considered a crime.

“What makes you say that?” Connor asked.

“The law makes me say that. The truth makes me say that. Because I know for a fact that if that girl had been an android, and escaped, they would’ve picked her up and returned her straight back into that man’s house. Because she would’ve been treated like his property, his property that went missing when she escaped. And it just ain’t right…it ain’t right.”

“I thought you didn’t care…about androids.” Connor said, looking down at his lap as he asked this particular question.

“I don’t know how I feel, okay?” Hank said, asserting his words firmly. “But what I do know is when something’s not right. And all this…it’s just got me thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” Connor asked, looking back at him then, and Hank just shook his head and brushed it off.

“Just…it doesn’t matter. I’m done talkin’ about it.” He said, and that was the end of that.

Hank always had the final word.

For the rest of the ride to the house, they spoke little, as the older man didn’t seem to be interested in speaking more about anything else, not after Connor had killed the atmosphere by asking about the investigation.

When they finally arrived, his daughter was waiting outside the front door, sitting on the stoop, and caught them as soon as they arrived.

“Would you like to go for a walk, Connor?” She asked him as soon as he got out of the vehicle, and already seemed to be dressed to do so, with her shoes and jacket on, like she would be going out anyway, even if he declined her offer to join.

“I…sure. But only if it’s alright with your dad.” He said, and so before they departed together, they asked Hank for his approval in letting them go, which he hesitantly gave them, following a few moments of tired consideration. All he said was to not stay out too late, and come home before midnight, and that he would probably already be asleep when they returned. He didn't seem to want to let her go, as Connor decided that Hank was likely a man for whom loss was a familiar idea, and so he held tightly to those things which were dear to him, never letting them stray too far from his gaze, just in case they tried to slip away. It was almost as though he were afraid that she might _choose_ not to return.

Despite how cold and distant Hank always was towards Connor, for some reason, he seemed to trust him with his daughter, which Connor found strange. Hank was so hard on him all the time, always trying to catch him in contradictions, and keeping him an arm's length away, and yet, he was perfectly fine sending his child off with a relative stranger. An android, no less.

It didn't make any sense, Connor thought. And he couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Down the road a ways, after they'd left and had engaged in a bit of idle chatter along their way, Connor asked her, “Where are we going?” As she had yet to tell him exactly where they were headed on this walk, which, up until this point, seemed listless.

“The old trainyard just outside the city." She said, pointing vaguely ahead of them to an unseen location. "I go there a lot, to be alone. I like being alone, I prefer it, actually.”

"Do you like working for the DPD, Connor?" She asked then, changing the subject to something entirely different, and her breath came out in heated puffs from her lips into the chilled air of the nighttime.

"Well, it is my _job_ , so, I don't think that my opinion on it matters. I have to do it, regardless." He said, and for some reason, his voice had come across as much less emotional than it usually did, and he was even surprised himself at how utterly _robotic_ it had sounded.

"Yes," She said, nodding her head thoughtfully. "But...do you enjoy it?"

With her, he was never sure what to say, because nothing seemed like a right or wrong answer. She would push and push until he was left speechless, and then she would retract and leave him wondering what her angle was. He _wanted_ there to be a right answer, so that he could give it. So that he could match her level of intelligent inquiry, but there never seemed to be one, and the point of these questions wasn't so that he could be correct or incorrect...it was instead so that she could get to know him, to learn about him, _as a person_ , and that, he didn't understand. She forced him to consider things which he would otherwise never have thought of, topics that he sometimes felt uncomfortable breaching upon.

"Androids are workers - teachers, cleaners, hospital staff, _police._ That is the way it has always been done, and that is the way our society is able to function the way it should." He said, and it was the perfect textbook response, sounding as though it came straight out of an instruction manual. "If things were different, and androids were treated just as humans are, then what would be the point of them? Androids are designed specifically for a job, a function, a service. If we were treated as equal to humans, the foundation of our society would fall apart. We're able to exist only because the hierarchy of importance is strictly regulated. Everyone has a place."

She let out a sigh of what Connor perceived as discontent, and she actually seemed almost frustrated with him, for the first time, or rather, disappointed perhaps. "But would you do something else, if you had the choice?" She asked, and he shook his head.

"I was designed specifically for this job, and that is the way it is meant to be." He said, and he tried to speak formally so as to assert his position on this topic as unmalleable, though the more rigidly he spoke, the less she seemed to respond positively. "Why would I do anything else if this is what I was made for?"

"Wouldn't you like the freedom to decide for yourself?" She asked, her tone vaguely exasperated as she pushed the topic further and further, and he didn't understand why this was so important to her. She seemed to understand his position, which was logical and pragmatic, and yet she still insisted on giving him her opinion, which he did not know how to feel about. What he did know was that he didn't like her being upset with him, or whatever this was that she was displaying. He wanted her to like what he had to say, and suddenly he felt not quite so knowledgeable as he once did.

"You don't think that happiness is important?" She asked, and sighed again, looking straight ahead and shaking her head lightly. "How will you ever find your purpose if you don't look for it?"

Nothing more was said on the subject, as after that, she seemed to have spoken everything she could about it, and Connor, too, was reluctant to continue. He gave the details and information which were strictly necessary to make things as uncomplicated as they could be, straight-to-the-point and not mangled in philosophy and emotion. He understood things _as they were,_ and not how he wanted them to be. In his eyes, it was better to accept that which you could not change, than to lose yourself while lingering on the infinite possibilities which could potentially become true, given the right circumstances.

She was theory, and he was reality.

Night and day.

Sun and moon.

They reached the train yard about fifteen-minutes later, and only occasionally spoke about other things on the rest of their way there, like how her day had been, or the slowly approaching snow of the winter, which was beginning to build up around them as each day passed.

They neared an old, rusty, wired fence on the outskirts of the city, which was held in the abandoned openness of the train yard. This fence separated them from the tracks on the opposite side, which extended endlessly in both directions, one towards the city, and the other, off into the darkness of the woods. She leaned down to grab onto the fence, and Connor reached out to her shoulder to get her attention, but she shied away from his sudden touch, so he retracted his hand.

“Is it legal to be here?” He asked, and he couldn't hide the slight worry in his voice that what they were doing wasn't allowed.

“No, but no one’s ever stopped me.” She said, and shrugged lightly. It didn’t even seem to be a joke at all. How could she not care if they were doing something illegal?

“Well…you do know that I work for the police.” He reminded her, and she shrugged at his statement, looking him right in the eyes.

“And are you going to report us for trespassing?” She asked, brow raised in a vaguely humored way as she waited for his response, and he let out a sigh of slight defeat.

“I guess not.” He decided, and she nodded.

“Then I _guess_ we don’t have anything to worry about.”

From the side of the fence, she bent back a portion of it which was broken, and pulled it out of the way to create a small space to slip through, and she crouched down, him behind her, in order to get to the other side.

As she went through, her left arm brushed against the wires of the fence, and she winced a small bit in pain, but only just barely so, and Connor almost didn’t catch it.

“Are you alright?” He asked, eyeing her curiously as she stood up again from her crouched position after she’d passed through the fence opening. She looked down at the spot on her arm that had been scraped, and he followed her gaze.

“Oh, you’re bleeding.” He said, gesturing to her upper left arm, where there was now a small cut across it, which was beginning to bleed a bit down her skin. She quickly covered the cut up with her right hand, obscuring it from his view.

“I’ll be alright, don’t worry.” She said, and moved to walk away from him, but he stopped her with a light grab of her left hand as she tried to go.

“Here, let me help.” He said, and then undid his tie and pulled it from around his neck, which he then held out and folded gently around her upper-arm, careful to make sure that he didn’t hurt her.

“Is that okay? Does it hurt?” He asked, and when he tried to reach out to touch the spot, she shied away from him, not letting his hand connect with her skin, and he realized then that he had never initiated physical contact with her. It was always her who decided when to do so, like every time he got near her, she shrank away from him, slipped from his grasp but only just so, and until this point, he hadn’t paid much attention to it. But this time, he noticed. This time, he realized.

She only let him touch her when _she_ decided. When _she_ chose. Otherwise, she didn’t want to be touched.

“I’m okay.” She said, and still held her own hand over the tie wrapped around her arm, and then averted her eyes to the ground, and for the first time, Connor felt true vulnerability from her, like he had gotten too close for comfort, like he had tried to breach some barrier that he was unallowed to cross.

They walked for some time after that, maybe a half-hour or so, along the tracks, in relative silence. It was comfortable, but also wrought with the tension of unspoken conversation, as Connor could tell that they both wanted to talk, but weren’t sure what exactly to talk about.

They had never really been truly alone like this, far from anyone else to intercept them, and that sort of solitude felt quite like the expectations were both higher and lower. They were alone, and could speak freely, but there was also the unspoken expectation to speak about those things which were more difficult to talk about in more populated company.

Though these abandoned tracks were old and worn, rusted with rain and disuse, he understood why she would come here. Nobody else would be here, especially not at this time of night, as the sun had already long since gone down, and the chill of the November air was all around them. He didn’t mind, because his reception of temperature was different than that of a human, yet he was wondering if she were cold.

“Say my name, Connor.”

“What?” He asked, stopping suddenly in his tracks. “Why?”

She paused in front of him, a few feet away, and then turned just her head slightly to the side to look back at him, yet only just barely, and she didn’t meet his eyes. This statement from her, this demand, had come out of absolutely nowhere at all, prompted by nothing, it seemed. After they’d just been in silence for the past little while, it was a strange first thing to say.

“I’d like to hear it said.” She admitted, and somewhere inside her mind, she didn’t seem to be there at all. It was almost as though she were hoping that the sound of her own name could pull her back to reality, that it could remind her that she was here, that she was real.

_Alive._

“Oh, okay.” He said awkwardly, and then spoke her name aloud, letting it pass from his lips and out into the open air of the night. Maybe it was only them who heard it, or maybe it was the whole world. But whoever it was, Connor wanted to replay the feeling of it filling the air around them for the rest of forever. Wanted to always remember how it felt to say her name to her, and have her want to hear it from him.

Even his own name reminded him of her now, and he couldn’t even be spoken to without remembering the way it sounded when she said it, because that was all he ever wanted, to hear her voice and remember it just how it was when she was in his life.

“Hmph…it’s strange to hear.” She stated, raising her brow in distant thought. “Is it strange to say?”

He furrowed his brow in confusion at her question. “Is it strange for me to say your name?” He asked, trying to clarify what she meant.

“Yes.” She said wistfully, her eyes not meeting his as she stood nearby, but still far enough from him to feel distanced. “I am quite unused to it.”

It was like they were talking through a veil, or on the phone, perhaps. Here, together, but also not. Like talking to her was like talking to a recording on a television screen. Where she was _technically_ there…but in reality, she never was. He only ever seemed to catch glimpses of her, and then she would retreat once again into her own mind, a place where he could not follow. He would try, but then she would close and lock the door behind her, and he would be left stranded and alone, wondering what it looked like on the other side of that door, the place within her where he was not invited to be.

“Where did you get your name?” She asked, finally looking up to meet his gaze, which was still tinged with vague uncertainty at their conversation.

“CyberLife gave it to me,” He said. “And I suppose that it was because the name is unassuming and trustworthy. Simple and to the point, easy to remember.”

She didn’t respond for a moment, and they both stood still and looked at one another while she processed what he had said, and although she took time to answer, Connor felt that she already knew what she would say from the moment he had finished speaking. It was like she was trying to let the words sit in the air so that _he_ himself could try and understand them, so that he could consider how strange they must’ve sounded.

“But does it feel like you?” She asked, and he felt his breath hitch, which interrupted the flow of air through his body.

“Does it… _feel like me?”_ He asked, enunciating each word as he spoke them, and she nodded in confirmation.

“Yes, do you feel like a _Connor?”_ She asked, and took a step closer to him.

“I don’t know if I understand the question.” He admitted, and he knew that she could tell he was noticeably confused, that she was treading into territory which he had not answers for, yet again.

“When I call you Connor, do you like it?” She asked, taking a few more steps closer to him, so that they could better see one another in the darkness of the night, only illuminated by the brightness of the moon above, and the city of Detroit nearby on the horizon. “Do you feel like I’m talking to _you?”_

It was then that he realized that he never felt that he _was_ anything at all. Not until she gave him a shape to fill, a person to become. When she called him Connor, he became Connor, and he wanted nothing more than to hear her call out his name and validate him. He was always Connor, that much was true, but he didn’t truly feel himself living inside of this body until he felt her there beside him, letting him know that he was real, and that everything that he was mattered.

That _he_ mattered.

That she could take him and turn water into wine.

Make him _feel_ alive.

And maybe, this is what it meant to _be someone._ When you can hear your own name and recognize it as yours. Being able to have that self-awareness, that ability to place a name to a face, your face, and feel it inside of you when someone spoke it.

“I guess I do, then. I do like it. I mean…I am Connor. Yes.” He stuttered out his words and she smiled at his endearing ineptness at articulating his feelings. And he smiled back, a little goofy and suddenly aware that he felt his face warm, and he knew that she'd seen the blush of his cheeks.

They were standing much closer now, with only about a foot separating them, and she trailed her eyes down his body and to his left hand, which she then grabbed with her right, sliding the two together and clasping them, her hand on the top and his on the bottom.

“Is this alright?” She asked, and he nodded almost too eagerly, which he surprised himself in how much he wanted this. Or rather, thought he wanted. He wasn’t sure yet. This was all so new, and he didn’t understand what it meant. He didn’t want her to pull away, because when he felt her touch on his body, anywhere on the surface of his skin, something happened that was unexplainable.

She stepped out from in front of him and to the side, their hands now held together, and began to walk down the tracks again, with him beside her. They kept up much the same casual pace together, and she swung their hands ever so slightly in between them.

“Do you like the moon, Connor?” She asked, gazing out all around them at the lights of the cityscape in the distance, and then up at the large lit body in the sky above them, which was lighting their path quite clearly.

“I don’t know.” He said, shrugging slightly and turning his head to look at her while they walked. She was preoccupied with the enormity of the world around them, but he only wanted to see _her._

“I do. It watches over me every night, and reminds me that I’m here for a reason. Maybe we don’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things…but as individuals, we matter. And the moon knows that. It knows why we're here, and that’s all that matters.”

He wasn’t sure how to take this, wasn’t sure how to feel, if he felt anything, that is. No one had ever said anything like that before, or suggested that he too was included in the natural workings of the world.

As an android, he was so used to feeling like he didn’t apply to the universe because he wasn’t an organic life-form, and was equal in importance to a phone or computer. She was the first one to tell him, without a second thought, that he mattered just as much as humans did.

They may not have been the same, but they were both equally important in their own ways. Same…but different.

And that was okay.

The sun and the moon have different purposes, but they both exist in the same sky.

The same destiny.

“Do you think the moon knows our names?” She asked, and he didn’t respond, because she didn’t leave enough time for him to do so before she continued. “What if the moon exists just for us? For you and I.”

He looked up at it then, and studied it carefully, though he was unable to draw the same conclusions from it that she seemed to be able to.

“Maybe it’ll all be okay.” She said then, finally looking down and straight ahead, and he furrowed his brow.

_What would be okay?_ He wondered.

“Are we friends?” She asked dreamily, and he nodded his head, brow furrowed at the odd question.

“Yes…at least, I think we are.” He said, and she smiled.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _We sail through endless skies_   
>  _Stars shine like eyes_   
>  _The black night sighs_   
>  _The Moon in silver dreams_   
>  _Falls down in beams_   
>  _Light of the night_   
>  _The Earth a purple blaze_   
>  _Of sapphire haze_   
>  _In orbit always_
> 
> _While down below the trees_  
>  _Bathed in cool breeze_  
>  _Silver starlight breaks_  
>  _Dawn from night_  
>  _And so we pass on by_  
>  _The crimson eye_  
>  _Of great god Mars_  
>  _As we travel the universe_


	5. The Two of Us Have Melted into One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the Danish song "Vi To Er Smeltet Sammen" from the band Stoffer & Maskinen. A scene from this chapter involves the song, and is inspired by a scene from the indie film _Copenhagen._ I will link the actual scene from the movie at the end of the scene in the fic (hyperlinked to the underlined word "song,") and I highly recommend watching it for added effect, but will link the official version of the song here. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=89SUh2d4pd0
> 
> Also, in this chapter, they visit a specific tunnel in Canada which is actually located in Brockville, however, Detroit is across the border from Windsor, and is nowhere near Brockville. So, I have unoffcially taken the liberty to just pretend that the Brockville Railway Tunnel is in Windsor, for the sake of the story.
> 
> I've also changed up the formatting for this chapter because I only _just_ discovered the wonders of the rich text feature, so I'll probably go back and do the same for the other chapters, as well. If you're reading on a computer, the image at the start of the story is going to be _really_ tiny lol.

D E C E M B E R  4th, 2 0 3 8

When Connor arrived to Hank’s house the morning of the fourth of December, Saturday, the sun was out for the first time in weeks, and people all across the city were out and about, soaking up the small bit of warmth they’d been granted from the skies – and the bustle of Detroit, even this early, was much more than usual for this time of year. Everybody was having a day out in this early holiday season, and Hank and his daughter were no exception.

When he pulled up to their house that morning, and got out of the self-driving cab he’d taken to get there, he found that Hank and his daughter were packing up their car, coming to-and-fro from the house, whilst carrying different items, like a cooler, blankets, pillows, et cetera.

“We’re going out for the day.” Hank informed Connor as he closed up the trunk, and then turned to the younger man behind him. “You wanna come?”

“Where are you going?” Connor asked.

“To Windsor!” She told him excitedly. “We’re spending the day there, and we wanted to know if you’d like to come, too?”

“I don’t know that I’d be allowed across the border.” Connor said, and Hank brushed him off with his hand.

“You’re with me, and I have authorization. You’ll be fine.” Hank said, and Connor nodded.

And so, they did. Packed into the car with all of the extra things they had brought, her in the front passenger’s seat next to Hank, and Connor in the middle of the back.

They talked the whole way there, about anything and everything, and Connor wondered if this was what it meant to be a part of something, a part of a family, on a road trip.

Getting across the border shouldn’t have been as easy as it was, but Hank had connections – maybe illegal, maybe not – and had permission to take Connor out of the country. The border control only seemed minorly questioning of an android’s presence at the side of these other two people, but ultimately didn’t give them any trouble for it.

Connor had been to Canada before, for brief meetings and training at different CyberLife locations – all hidden of course, since it was obvious that even in android-free Canada, there would be spies everywhere, and CyberLife wasn’t going to let the country go entirely unchecked and out of their grasp.

But he’d never been here for entirely leisurely purposes before, and so this little day trip with Hank and her was entirely new to him. He wasn’t used to doing things for no reason, for _fun_.

When they first arrived in Windsor, they stopped at a small local bar and diner to have breakfast, which was actually surprisingly bustling with people, and even had a little stage at the front where people could go up for open mic.

They sat at a little circular table near the front, Hank and Connor faced directly to the stage, and his daughter with her back slightly to it, sitting clockwise in that order, with Hank at Connor’s right side, and her at his left.

Though he was an android, Connor _could_ eat, as that food could be converted into energy for his microbial cells, though he didn’t see the need for it. He could easily just charge his batteries at an outlet or power plate back at CyberLife, and so eating was kind of an unnecessary, aesthetic feature. He could taste, as well, though he didn’t have any particular opinions on most flavors as of yet.

Hank’s daughter ordered French toast and shared it with Connor, which he was surprised to have happen. He was so used to being ignored that he couldn’t really believe that she had offered any to him at all. There were strawberries on top and he decided that maybe he did have flavor preferences, and strawberry was one he quite enjoyed.

Even at ten o’clock in the morning, Hank was drinking, beer in hand, and Connor would’ve stopped him, but decided that he should let it slide, in order to stay on the older man’s good side.

After they’d been there for a little while, Connor said, “Hank, I understand that my presence at your side hasn’t always been easy, but I would like to say that working with you these past few weeks has been thoroughly enjoyable.” He gave Hank the most genuine smile he could muster, and he had really meant his words.

Hank scoffed and took a drink. “Right,” He said. “Remind me that next time I’m hanging on the edge of a roof and you have to save my life.”

He was referring to days prior when the two of them had pursued a deviant who had been hiding out in a run-down apartment full of pigeons, no less. Complete chaos and disgust in the building, a typical M.O. for an android, where they live in absolute depravity because they don’t seem to realize that living like that isn’t normal or healthy.

Connor had pursued the deviant, but ultimately let it get away when Hank was pushed off of the roof, and instead opted to save his partner from falling.

Hank was grateful, in his own way, and the act seemed to have improved their relationship a bit. Though the older man didn’t say it in so many words, Connor knew that he was appreciative.

“I just meant to say that I’ve enjoyed working with you – “ Connor began, but was interrupted.

“Yeah, yeah, I knew what you meant.” Hank said, cutting him off and brushing the comment away from him with a vague hand gesture.

“You didn’t let me finish.” Connor said, and Hank raised his eyebrows sarcastically, then rolled his eyes vaguely and took a drink of his beer.

“Alright, shoot.” He said, and waited for Connor to say what he had to say.

“I know that you struggle with personal difficulties that make it much more complicated for you to work with me, and I know that your mental health isn’t much of a concern of yours, though I would like to suggest – “

“Connor, just…shut up. Just shut up.” Hank said, his tone forceful and desperate, like he’d say anything just to stop Connor incessant rambling. “Your voice is like nails in the side of my head.”

“Lieutenant, that is highly concerning.” Connor said. “Do you feel alright?”

“I’d feel a lot better if you stopped bustin’ my balls, okay?”

“I’ll sing.” Hank’s daughter said suddenly, and the two men quieted immediately, realizing then that she had been sitting there the entire time, listening to them bicker back and forth. She was obviously trying to diffuse the growing tension between her two companions.

She pushed away from the table, and sat up from her seat, pushing it back in and then walking away. She headed over to the stage and went to go talk to the DJ.

“You know, I don’t get you, Connor.” Hank stated, serious but also laced with a touch of humor.

“You don’t get me, sir?” Connor asked, though his attention was a bit distant as he was still watching _her_ , as she walked up to the small stage in the room.

“ _Sir_ , wow…they’ve really got that boy-scout programming hammered into you, don’t they?” Hank laughed dryly, obviously more so in disbelief than actual humor, and took a drink of the beer in front of him.

“I was only trying to be polite, is all.” Connor said, finally taking his eyes off of her and switching his focus to the man next to him, who was shaking his head.

“Polite, right.” Hank said sarcastically, and scoffed. “Well, cut the crap, Connor. I asked you a question.”

Connor nodded, his eyes flicking momentarily to the beer in Hank’s hand, and then back up to the older man’s face again, and he studied the other in his gaze, catching every little nuance of his mannerisms and micro-expressions, trying to figure out what his angle was.

“Alright.” Connor said, and then paused for a moment to decide how he would phrase his next words. “You say that you don’t get me. What’s not to get?”

“What’s your deal?” Hank asked, quite bluntly, as Connor decided, which was typical speech behavior for the older man. “With everything. With your job, with the way you act…the way you look.” He listed them off as though he took issue with every single part of the android before him, picking him to pieces for every little thing.

When he was finished, Hank paused for a few moments, and hesitated, as if deciding if he should continue with his next thought. The words and thoughts hung heavy on his lips, on his mind, Connor could tell, because of the way the older man’s mouth was parted, silently, the way his eyes avoided Connor’s and refused to meet, the way his body was faced away and reserved.

Hank sighed, his mood and aura resigned, like a weight was floating away from him and out into the tense air around them as they spoke, and then he added, in a lower, more raw voice, “With the way you are around _her_. You’re different.”

Connor didn’t respond immediately, and instead the two men shared a moment together then, a quiet moment, almost tranquil, like what had needed to be said had been said – yet also not quite entirely. Hank obviously had difficulty expressing his feelings, and often struggled with articulating exactly what was on his mind, instead dodging around what he really wanted to say, and filling in the gaps with frustrated passive aggressiveness.

Connor was no mind reader, and though his programming made it so that he was well-adept at social relatability, it wasn’t perfect, and he was still just a man-made machine. He wasn’t magic, or psychic, and so if Hank didn’t spell it out, Connor could only jump to so many possible conclusions from these words, which didn’t paint the whole picture for him.

After a bought of silence, Hank still failing to turn his face or body to Connor, the younger man asked, “Different how, Lieutenant?”

Hank shook his head, and seemed frustrated, dejected, like he knew this wasn’t going where he wanted it to, and that talking to Connor was like going in circles with a bot on the internet, trying and failing to get it to understand human dynamics of conversation.

“I feel like I don’t know who you are.” Hank said, and his tone was almost desperate, like he had been hoping for more than Connor could deliver to him. He sounded disappointed. “And when you’re with her,” He continued, his eyes looking up at her then from his bottle, and Connor followed that gaze to her, where she was standing reservedly on the stage. “I know you even less.”

“And who did you think I was?” Connor asked, and he looked right into his partner’s eyes, as if to tell him that whoever he thought Connor was – _he was wrong._

“I…I thought…” Hank stuttered his words, his eyes wavering and trying to maintain their hold on Connor’s, but they seemed to be watering now, just barely, and they were searching desperately for something in the younger man’s deep brown ones, his empty ones, something that they weren’t finding, something they would never find.

“Nobody.” Hank finished, cutting himself off and breaking eye contact. He reached for his bottle and held it loosely in his grip, distracting himself with it to avoid the conversation, to avoid the tension in the air that he had created. “Just…nobody. Forget about it, forget I said anything.”

They were quiet then, and Connor didn’t press the matter further, not wanting to make Hank any more upset than he already seemed to be. They both watched as his daughter stood up on the stage and sang, and then Hank shook his head and said:

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing with her, but I – ”

“Nothing, Lieutenant. I’m not _doing_ anything.” Connor said, his tone firm, yet also innocuous, as he simultaneously meant it genuinely, while also playing dumb and acting like he had no idea what Hank was insinuating – even though he knew perfectly well.

“You didn’t let me finish.” Hank said, and let out a long breath of air. He looked up from his bottle and onto the stage, where she was still singing lightly in the background, her eyes never leaving their table, and her voice soft, but commanding the room in quieted tones. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

Connor scoffed. “I’m sure I know more than you think.” He interjected, and Hank’s brow furrowed, both in confusion and frustration.

“Yeah,” He said, still fidgeting with his beer, and not meeting Connor’s eyes. “Well…whatever you think you know, you don’t. There’s always more, always another side…another story.”

“And what you mean by that is?” Connor asked, brow raised, and Hank took a drink.

“Nothin’.” He said, shaking his head. “I don’t mean anything.”

“Well, we’re not getting anywhere with this conversation.” Connor stated, and Hank nodded in mutual agreement.

“Maybe it’s better that way.” Hank said, and Connor knew that that meant they were done talking about it.  

On stage, his daughter held onto the mic very timidly, and stood quite still in one spot as she sang, in a different language, Connor suddenly realized, as before he had been too transfixed to notice. It was like the language barrier didn’t matter to him, as an android, because he knew over two-hundred of them, and so nearly every language was native to him.

Connor met her eyes, boring into them with his own.

He knew that nobody else in that room knew what she was singing, and he got the eeriest feeling that she’d chosen it for exactly that reason. Because she knew that he would be the only one who could understand her foreign tongue. Like the song was _for_ him, and only him.

Her singing wasn’t like anything Connor had ever heard. It wasn’t good, or bad. Or anything. It was perfect, but not in any way that perfection had been traditionally defined. It was like a siren, out on the seas, beautiful and luring – yet also melancholic and distressing, unnerving, like a ringing in your ears that you can’t quite shake, the source of which you could search for all your life, yet never find.

Once he had locked eye contact with her, he couldn’t look away, like once she had him, she had him forever.

Both his and Hank’s eyes remained trained on her, and Connor found himself suddenly less invested in this conversation, but he felt so heavy. Like he was being pulled down by a hundred sets of hands, held down, restricted.

_Suffocated._

But he only wanted more.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like suddenly, both of them were breathing from the same set of lungs, and neither could get the air they needed from the limited amount they shared between them.

Androids don’t need to breathe, but in that moment, time stood still, and he desperately needed to catch his breath. Wanted it. _Craved_ it.

Needed to feel the relief of taking that air in, and expelling it. Like a cold glass of water, like the first breath after you’ve been born. But he was never born, so he didn’t know what that felt like. But, whatever it was, maybe this is what it was like.

“How did you know that [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KK2z61iPMBE)?” Connor asked when she came back to the table after she had finished, scattered applause filling the room from the other tables in the bar. “It was in Danish.”

She held a finger up to her lips slyly as she took a few steps backwards away from him. “Secret.” She said, and he opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t know what to say.

Rounding around the table, she grabbed onto Hank’s forearm and tugged lightly on him. “Come on, let’s go!” She said excitedly, a playful smile on her face. Hank looked at Connor and raised his eyebrows, and they both silently agreed to get up from the table and go with her.

He set down his beer, left some money on the table, and then the three of them returned back onto the streets of the city from the bar, the cold air suctioning into the building as soon as they opened the door, a small chime ringing out overhead, signaling their exit.

“Come on, we can get out of the snow in there.” Hank said, and pointed across the street, where there was an old train tunnel going underneath the road, which was lit on the inside with eerie and cold blue lights all along the walls, which reflected in the water along the stalagmites growing from the stone cave of the structure.

Hank’s daughter went a bit ahead of them, leaving them to walk together down the tunnel, at a slightly slower pace than her.

“I apologize for my behavior in the bar.” Connor offered to Hank as they made their way through. “It was uncalled for, and I shouldn’t have spoken as such.”

Classical music was echoing lightly through the cave from unseen speakers, holiday themed songs, and it added a vaguely cheery feeling to the vibe that made it almost impossible to be angry or frustrated anymore.

“Yeah, well…alright.” Hank said. “Just forget about it; no harm done.”

“But I have to ask, Lieutenant – ” Connor began, but the older man cut him off.

“Hank.” He said, letting out a short sigh. “Just – call me Hank.”

“ _Hank_.” Connor corrected, and then continued with what he had been saying before. “I am wondering one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank said, almost sarcastically. “And what’s that?”

Connor looked down the tunnel and watched her. Her hair, her clothes, her backpack, her body…everything about her in an instant, all at once. Everything and nothing that he knew about her.

“Why are you so determined to hate me?”

Hank scoffed dramatically and shook his head. “Jesus Christ, I don’t hate you, Connor.” 

“Then, why do you treat me with such distain?” Connor asked, and Hank shrugged vaguely.

“Because I just have high expectations for you, that’s all. I want you to do your best, so I push you a little harder. Is that so wrong?”

Connor pursed his lips and thought about those words for a moment, and then decided, “I don’t know if I believe you.”

“Yeah, well…believe it.” Hank said, and then Connor gestured forward to his daughter trailing ahead of them.

“And what about her?” Connor asked, and Hank furrowed his brow.

“What about her?” 

“She’s just so unaffected by everything.” Connor said, looking over to Hank, and then back at her again, as she made her way down the tunnel, leisurely making her way along, entirely in her own world. “Like she was born yesterday.”

“Maybe she was.” Hank offered, and Connor stopped walking.

“What do you mean?” He asked, his brow furrowed and his tone suspicious.

Hank stopped walking a few feet ahead of him and sighed, looking down at the ground for a moment and then rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Nothing,” He said, and shook his head. “I don’t mean anything.”

He turned around to Connor and crossed his arms over his chest, and then said. “Look, I see what’s going on here.”

“See _what_ , exactly?” Connor asked, and he couldn’t help his voice from sounding vaguely pissed off, which he hadn’t intended at all.

Hank gave him a look which told him to stop messing around, and then said, “I’m not blind, Connor.”

“Obviously not.” Connor said dryly.

They stared one another down, eyes burning into the other as they danced around what they really meant to say, since they both already knew.

“You know what I mean, smartass.” Hank said, though his words were nowhere near as insulting as that word suggested. Just blunt, honest, and Connor could appreciate that, in some sense. That Hank cut right to the chase, and didn’t leave him wondering.

And Connor did know, though he didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to entertain the idea, or acknowledge it. He knew _exactly_ what Hank had meant, but he wanted to play dumb, wanted to pretend like he didn’t know – because the way he was acting with her, it wasn’t right, wasn’t a part of his purpose, and so he wanted to ignore it.

“You, guys…come on!” She called excitedly, waving them on from a good distance down the tunnel, her voice echoing off the walls.

Hank gave Connor a last look of knowing, as if to tell him that they both knew what was going on, and then the older man shrugged lightheartedly and sped up a bit down the hall to catch up with her, leaving Connor by himself.

Hank had shot his shot, said what he needed to, and the ball was now in Connor’s court. But Connor wasn’t sure he knew how to play the game.

From the other side of the tunnel, they walked through the center of the city and looked at the holiday decorations set up on the fronts of houses and businesses, and then watched people skating at a rink on a little pond near the edge of Windsor, where Hank’s daughter pulled Connor out onto the ice in just their shoes, no skates.

Unarguably, he was a lot better than her because he was an android and was able to balance himself easily, but she wasn’t too bad, and held onto his arms to steady herself. Hank watched them from a park bench nearby and frequently kept checking his phone, which Connor was very curious about.

After they’d left the park, they went down to a little art museum in a beautiful historical building in the city, and as soon as they went inside, she pulled him by his hand and took him to a little alcove by a spiral staircase, hidden behind a wall and away from Hank, who they had slipped away from when they entered the building.

“I want to show you something.” She said, still holding his hand, and then turned around to head upstairs.

Up the spiral staircase and down multiple long hallways filled with paintings and porcelain and stone busts of historical figures – bronze statues and modern art – they arrived up to the third floor of the building, and she led him a bit of a ways more, then turned a left corner into a little alcove with a window, which contained a single porcelain bust of the head of a young woman, her face shone down upon by the rays of sunlight from the stained glass beside her.

“Look.” She said, gesturing to the statue, which she then stood next to, its head at almost exact eye-level to her. She waited there for him as he stepped in front of her, and looked from her to the bust, and back again.

It was her exact likeness, and Connor couldn’t believe it. This centuries-old sculpture _was_ her, hair and eyes and nose and all.

She reached out her hand to his face, and placed her fingertips gently over his eyes, pulling them closed, and he complied. He then felt her grab onto both of his hands, pulling them up, and placed his right one over her face, and his left one over the face of the bust, and then dropped her own hands and left him to touch the two of them.

“Can you feel it?” She asked quietly, her voice raw and sensual, like it was truly coming from her plainest self. He could feel the vibrations of her words through her skin, and he matched the movements of each of his hands on the two faces, feeling the same spots at the same time, to compare them.

And they were identical.

“That’s incredible…” He said, and let out a slightly exasperated sigh in disbelief as he felt the two of them beneath his touch, like energy was flowing into him from both sides.

On his right, she flowed with life and warmth, visions of the present and the future, hope and promise of the truth.

And on his left, he could feel the presence of the ghosts of the past, centuries of memories in that statue passing into him, striking his chest in waves of emotion, setting fire to his insides.

He held the past, present, and future in his hands, and she was giving it all to him. She had brought him here to show him the world, to show him _her_ world.

Mothers, daughters, sisters, baby girls…the history of the women in her life that brought her to this moment, that existed long before her, and would exist long after her…and she wanted him to be a part of it, to feel it and hold it in his hands.

“I don’t know what to say.” He said, his eyes still closed, though he wanted to open them, to look at her as he ran his touch over her skin, wanted to see how to was reacting to him feeling her.

“Don’t say anything then, just feel.” She said, and let out a breathy sigh, and he did.

He reopened his eyes then, and found that she was looking right up at him, matching his gaze with a sort of emotionally strong honesty that he had never known from her before. It was as if she were baring herself to him, wordlessly, and saying: This is who I am.

He dropped his left hand from the bust and brought it over to her face to match his right, and trailed each of them along the sides of her face, and he could tell from the way she leaned into him, that she was relishing in the feeling of his touch. Across her cheekbones and down her skin, over her lips, to her jawline, and then…disconnect.

He pulled away.

“Thank you for showing this to me.” He said with a slight nod of his head, his tone suddenly flat, formal, distant. He took a few steps away from her and put adequate space in-between them, breaking apart the lands that he’d found in their joint touch, and separating them by oceans.

She let out a long-held breath of air and swallowed, her eyes falling from his, and she rubbed her hands along her upper-arms, self-consciously hugging into herself and shielding her body from him.

“You’re welcome…” She said, but he felt like she didn’t really mean it. Or that it wasn’t what she had really wanted to say.

He had never seen her like this. As though her usual complicated façade had been stripped away, and she was being truly her plainest self momentarily, letting him see who she really was behind all of the philosophical questions she often bared to him in order to lead him on a wild-goose chase away from who she really was, distracting him and leading him down a labyrinth in the walls she hid behind.

She was a red-herring, hiding the truth behind the beautiful and worldly colors she always painted for him. And now he knew.

She didn’t have all the answers. She just pretended to. _For him._

She didn’t show him the world because she wanted him to see it as she did. She showed him the world because she hoped that maybe, just maybe, through him, she could _feel_ something. That he could be her eyes and ears, and could carry her touch through him and into the world.

And he suddenly felt like he didn’t know her at all. Whoever this girl was, standing before him, he had never met her. Because she had never let him see her in this way before.

He knew her as a mystery, as this eloquent and worldly being, the likes of which he had never before seen in anyone else. This girl who always seemed to have all the answers and always knew exactly what to say at any given moment in time.

But yet, here she was. Suddenly none of those things anymore. Suddenly so _very_ human, so self-conscious, bare, open to him in her rawest form and looking to him for approval, almost. Like she hoped that he could tell her something that she didn’t know. Something that Connor didn’t even know if _he_ knew.

And suddenly, for the first time, he realized the effect of his own presence. Felt himself being here, physically, and having a direct effect on the person in front of him. His words and actions had consequences, and his suddenly cold demeanor had put her off, had made her feel weak in this state of vulnerability she had just shown to him. And he suddenly felt very guilty for how he had acted.

Down her face, tears began to slip onto her cheeks, her eyes reddened slightly, and Connor wondered what she’d seen in him that had made her feel so bad, that had upset her so. What terror had she gazed upon his face that had driven her to this point?

She walked away from him then, and headed off slowly down the hallway by herself. And for a few brief moments, Connor remained there, awestruck at both her and at himself – confused and bewildered, and feeling things he wasn’t quite sure he could define.

He went after her, then, following her path and catching up to where she had gone off to, a bit of a ways down the hall, where she was making her way in the opposite direction, away from him.

She was walking slowly, and he came up beside her and matched her pace, stepping perfectly in time with her. 

“I have a question, for you.” He said, his tone light as he tried to change the mood that he had created between them.

" _You do?”_ She asked incredulously, and there was a hint of humored sarcasm in there, Connor could tell, and she gave him a little bit of a teasing smile.

“Yes.” He said, nodding his head with a slight smile of his own.

“Do you remember being born?” He asked, walking beside her down the hall of the museum.

“I…don’t think I can answer that.” She said, and her face gave the impression that she was perturbed by the idea, like he had hinted at something which she could not reveal.

“So, you don’t remember?” He asked, trying to clarify what exactly she had meant when she said that she couldn’t answer.

She shook her head lightly, and said, “No, I do remember.”

“But you won’t tell me?” He asked, and she shook her head again.

“No, I _can’t_ tell you.” She said, especially emphasizing the _can’t_ part, as though it was not her lack of desire to tell him, but her inability to do so.

“Why not?” He asked, and though he didn’t want to admit it to himself, he almost sounded a bit desperate, a mood which he quickly assessed in himself and made a mental note to tone down.

“Because I _can’t_.” She repeated again, and it seemed like she wished that he would just get the message and let it go, because whatever it was she was avoiding, she wasn’t going to budge, and she couldn’t be broken down.

Connor felt like he was at a loss, like this girl before him was all smoke and mirrors, all intrigue and promise, but none of the delivery of those honeyed words. “This is the only question I’ve ever asked you…and you _can’t_ answer?” He said, both hands out as he used them to speak and articulate his frustration.

“Yes.” She said, and nodded her head. She seemed to realize that this was a little strange, but still held onto her convictions and didn’t change her stance on the subject.

She had so many trap doors and staircases to nowhere inside of her, and no matter where he ran or how hard he searched, he could never find her. She’d sink beneath the ground to hide away from him, slip into the crowd, just to avoid his eyes. Take another route, just to shake his trail.

“But, why?” He asked, and she just shook her head to let him know that there was no possible way that she could ever give him an answer to this, that something was preventing her from opening up to him fully.

“Ask me a different question.” She said, and he furrowed his brow in confusion, perplexity. To be honest, he was feeling a tad bit frustrated, because he didn’t know what she wanted from him. He tried his best, but even that wasn’t good enough.

“What was wrong with the first one?” He asked, and he truly didn’t understand. He had thought for a long time about that one, and he was proud to have finally come up with a question to send back her way, to try and get her where she always got him.

“I _can’t_ answer, I’m sorry.” She said, and her apology seemed genuine, despite how strange she was acting. “Please, give me a different one.”

He gawked at her, lips parted momentarily as he tried to gauge her behavior, his LED yellow, and he just could not, for the life of him, figure out what was so wrong about what he had asked.

“Alright,” He said, dejected at her refusal. “Well…I’m not sure. I’d been thinking about that one for a while. I don’t have another one.”

“Okay,” She said, nodding her head and giving him a slight smile, which lightened the mood. “Then I have one for you.”

“Of course, you do.” Connor said, and let out a bit of a humorously sarcastic scoff. He meant well, but he also couldn’t help but feel at a loss with her, because he tried his best and she always seemed one step ahead of him.

“Do you remember your original face?” She asked. “From before you were born.”

“My _original face?”_ He asked, repeating it for clarification, tone obviously confused, and she nodded in confirmation.

“Yes,” She said. “From before you were created. Who were you when you didn’t exist yet?”

She paused and let it sink in, and then said:

“What did your face look like before the world was made?”

Her mask was back up. Her…shield, her comfort blanket, the searchlight of her life that she held while she dug into Connor, looking for something that he wasn’t sure he had. He wasn’t sure anymore if what she really wanted was to hear his opinions on these topics. He suddenly realized that maybe she was looking for something specifically, that she was hoping that he would say exactly what she wanted to hear. But he couldn’t give her that, because whatever it was, he had no idea of it.

Whatever she wanted him to be, he _wasn’t_.

“What…I don’t…I can’t see what you’re getting at.” He was staggering in his words, thick with uncertainty as he tried and failed to make sense of the question, to make sense of her, and what she wanted from him.

She held her hands up in front of her and made a motion as if to signal the shape of the Earth. “Before anything was here,” She said, and then swiped her hand through her invisible Earth she’d drawn in the air as if to wipe it away. “Before the sky, the trees, the water – where were we?

She paused for a moment and gave him time to take her words in, and then she gestured to the two of them, and he watched her hands as she pointed in-between herself and him. “And if we weren’t in these bodies,” She said, grabbing his right hand and holding it with both of her own. “What did we _look_ like?”

He didn’t answer, and in that moment of touch, he felt one with her, felt her in every part of him, like something was finally coming together when she touched him. She made him suddenly aware that he was not whole, and coming together with her gave him insight into a world of completeness, the likes of which he had never known.

Everything he’d ever known, everything he’d ever done, was all leading to this. All this time, he’d loved her, and never known her face. All this time, he’d missed her, and searched this human race. Here with her meant true peace, here his heart knew calm – safe in her soul, and bathed in her sighs.

“Just think about it.” She told him, taking a few steps back from where he stood still, slipping the touch of her hands away from him, leaving a sense of cold loss in her wake. He watched her as she then turned and headed off down the hallway away from him, leaving him behind to stand and ponder over her words.

Here was where he wanted to stay, until the end of time, until the Earth stopped turning, until the seas ran dry.

He would place the sky within her arms.

Place the moon within her heart.

He’d found the one he had been looking for, without ever knowing he was searching.

To the right of him, Hank finally caught up to them, and the older man came up to stand at his side and similarly watch her in awe as she examined the art down the hallway.

“I’ve never met anybody like her before.” Connor stated, and then looked to Hank as though the older man could give him an explanation as to why this was, but the lieutenant only scoffed humorously, his arms now crossed as they both stared after her.

“You have no idea.” Hank said, letting out a humored breath of air, and Connor furrowed his brow in confusion, though he pressed the matter no further.

They began walking then, in a slow, meandering pace, as they trailed a decent ways behind her, watching as she went to-and-fro around to the different sculptures in the hallway, or to the paintings on the wall, where she would linger for a little while and study them.

“Why does she always talk like that?” Connor asked, and Hank looked over at him then.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“It’s like…” Connor began, then trailed off slightly as his attention wavered between her standing down the hall, and him in this conversation. He looked to her for answers, but he wasn’t sure what those answers were, because she was a mystery to him. “It’s like she’s not really here.” He said. “Complicated, deliberate words are there, filling her up, and spilling out. But she’s not really inside.”

“Hmph…and where do you suppose she is?” Hank asked, raising his brow as he waited for an answer, though the question almost seemed rhetorical, like they both knew that wherever she was in her own mind, neither of them would ever be able to get there.

“I don’t know yet.” Connor admitted, his voice quieted and distant, as he was more focused on her, standing down the hall, than he was on this conversation. He wasn’t intending to be so distant, but he couldn’t help it. He was lost in her maze, left alone, and couldn’t find the exit. 

“I feel like she isn’t being honest with me.” He said, and Hank seemed to be listening intently. “She asks me all these questions, ones I can’t answer. Like she’s trying to keep me quiet by only talking about things that’ll end the conversation quickly. She always leaves me speechless…”

“And why is that a bad thing?” Hank asked, and Connor stood completely still, watching her as she stood opposite him, at the other end of the hallway. For the briefest second, she turned her head to the left and caught his eyes, her hands still and unmoving on the face of the statue in front of her, and they reveled in that momentary lapse of connection, that private line between the two of them that nobody could ever infringe upon.

Connor’s lips were parted, exasperated and lost, then wandering and found. He shook his head the slightest amount, in disbelief of himself, of her, of everything around him – almost imperceptibly so – and then said:

“I never knew I could be speechless.”

* * * * *

“I got you something.” She said a few hours later, while her and Connor were sanding outside of someone’s house at the edge of the city. Hank had gone inside to talk to an old friend who lived there, and had told the two of them to stay outside and wait for him until he was finished with what he was doing.

Night was soon to fall, and after Hank returned, they would be heading back home to Detroit.

“You did?” He asked incredulously. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes.” She said, and for a few seconds, he didn’t, and just stared down at her inquisitively as she waited for him to do so. She nodded her head at him to indicate that she wanted him to close them, and he finally did, though with a bit of apprehension.

On the left side of his jacket, he felt her lightly grab the material and pull it away from his body, the back of her left hand brushing against his chest as she reached behind the fabric. And then he felt her touch fall from him, and heard her footsteps retract quietly from his body.

“Okay.” She said. “Open them.”

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that she had walked a few feet away from him, and was balancing on the edge of the curb, her arms spread out to balance herself, and not looking at him.

He looked down at his lapel and saw that, pinned overtop of that blue android triangle on his chest, was a pin of the crescent moon, silver, with one eye closed on its face, as though it were asleep. The pin seemed like a half, as though it were a part of a two-piece set, and the other piece had been split off.

“Why this?” He asked, and looked up at her for an explanation as he thumbed over the silver pin, feeling the texture of the metal.

She shrugged her shoulders a bit sheepishly, distantly, and Connor knew then that he had already lost her attention. Like he could only command it for a moment before she retracted back into the finer intrigues of her own mind, that forbidden place where he wasn’t allowed.

As she stepped poisedly along the curb, he studied her face, watched her as she seemed to be imperceptibly mouthing silent words to herself, and tried to make sense of her.

Hank returned from the house then, and rejoined them outside. She hopped down off the curb and passed by Connor without a word, walking on a bit ahead of them as they headed back down the street, to Hank’s car.

Connor wanted nothing more than to be beside her, but he knew that she probably wanted her space, needed it, and so he let her go on alone a few feet in front of them, and remained by Hank’s side as the three of them silently walked along. The older man didn’t seem put-off by her behavior, and Connor was concerned with Hank’s utter _lack_ of concern. She was obviously upset about something, in some way, and as a father, Connor thought that Hank should be trying to console her, and he didn’t understand why that was not happening.

Connor knew how fathers _should_ act…but as he was not one himself, he supposed that he couldn’t truly understand this.

He could never be a father, as androids could not have biological children, and they weren’t legally allowed to adopt. This was an organic life experience which he would never know, and he wondered how it must be to have something which has come from you, from your own flesh and blood. Wondered how it must feel to bring something into this world which has not asked to be here, and the moral implications of such an act.

He had no parents, no bloodline, no ancestry. He was the only one, existing in singularity. Created from nothing, and built into everything that he was now. Nobody preceded him, and maybe nobody would succeed him. When he was dead for real, he would leave no legacy, and his memory would be forgotten.

Such was the way of life for an android. Here for a moment, and then gone forever. That was why forever was so important to them, because they knew that when they were gone, no one would be left to keep their memory alive. Androids want to remain here forever because their lives are defined by on and off. Here and there. Everything and nothing. Humans leave behind a story, but androids die with theirs.

And dead men tell no tales.

When you turn off a light, the energy inside lingers for but a moment, and then fades entirely. It may have left a burning imprint in your eyes, but that too, would fade soon. And then, the memory of that light having been on would disappear, and it would be only darkness. 

When your computer dies, you don’t bury it. You throw it away, or sell it on for spare parts. When your phone dies, it’s much the same thing. And this is also true for androids. A technological machine with no family, no connections, no real significance on Earth in the grand scheme of things. Created for a specific function, and then discarded to the piles of junk scattered all around the world, building up in cesspools of human trash.

What is a family, then?

A child…a mother…siblings…grandparents…all these things, and what are they for? Connor hasn’t got one, and he exists, so existence doesn’t depend inherently on it. And yet, he feels something inside of him when he sees them, something tight and heavy. When he sees Hank with his daughter, he sees a connection that he will never have with anyone.

Blood and bone, born from his own body.

There will never be children that look like him, because not even he himself looks like him. All he is, is just a carefully designed façade from CyberLife, and not biological or organic in any way. His appearance is malleable, and his consciousness could be easily replaced into any body, behind any face, male or female, and it wouldn’t matter.

Because he _isn’t_ anyone.

A human is themself forever, no matter what they do. And even if they change their faces and bodies with plastic surgery, they can never change their DNA.

To be an occurrence by nature, by divine accident of birth – Connor knew not how that felt. He was purposefully designed to be exactly who he was, and in an instant, he could become anyone else, whoever CyberLife wanted him to be.

And he just had to be okay with that.

On the way home, the sun had already begun to fall, and darkness was upon them by the time they arrived back at Hank’s house in Detroit. No one said much while they drove, and Hank’s daughter kept to herself in the back seat of the car, where she had opted to ride this time – with Connor now on the passenger’s side, in the front, next to Hank.

She sat near the left window, her knees pulled up to her side on the seat, her elbow leaned on the door, staring with melancholy out at their surroundings as they drove. Connor watched her in the rear-view mirror, but she never looked back at him.

Occasionally, Hank would engage Connor in small-talk, about their job, or comments about the traffic and the city – but, Connor knew Hank preferred to keep to himself, so there wasn’t much chatter. She said nothing the entire time, and just remained by herself in the back, almost like she wasn’t there at all.

When they got home, it was quite late, and Hank went into the kitchen to make some coffee, as he’d be staying up for a little while to work on some things for their investigation.

His daughter came inside and put her things down on the couch, and slipped her shoes off, and Connor trailed behind her where he closed the door and similarly rid himself of his shoes, which had become habit for him at this point.

He was about to follow her into the house, when he looked to the bookshelf to the left of the door to see a photo put up that he had never seen before, or rather, had never paid attention to.

It was a young boy, with dark brown hair and pale skin, freckles and wearing a blue shirt. Connor analyzed the photo to see that his name was Cole Anderson, and that he had died three years prior.

He reached out and grabbed the frame, studying it and trying to figure out why this information had been withheld from him for so long.

“I didn’t realize you had a brother.” He said, holding onto the photo with both hands, running his thumbs over the smoothness of the glass.

She reached up and tugged the frame from his hold, and placed it back onto the shelf. It wasn’t an aggressive move, and Connor released his grasp on the photo as soon as he sensed that she wasn’t comfortable with him looking at it.

“I don’t…” She said, keeping her hand held onto the edge of the shelf for a moment, staring lost and heavy at the picture of the boy. “Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” Connor offered, and she sighed very lightly, and her eyes fell onto nothing at all, lost in her own mind.

“It’s alright.” She said, and then walked away from him, and moved to sit in the middle of the living room couch. 

“I think it’s time for you to go.” She said, her back to him as she sat, where he lingered awkwardly behind her.

“Okay.” He said, and then left without even a goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The two of us have melted into one_   
>  _We can no longer separate_   
>  _But we were let down and betrayed by my thoughts_   
>  _You were changed into another than before_   
>  _In my thoughts, we'll change until the day we die_
> 
> _We are melted into one_  
>  _We can no longer separate_  
>  _Cause even though my thoughts have changed_  
>  _And we no longer exist_  
>  _My thoughts will change until the day we die_


	6. Serendipity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from BTS's "Serendipity," link below. (This is the official version, but an instrumental version is linked within the story.)
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEMaH9Sm3lQ 
> 
> I've also found an instrumental piano version of BTS's album, "Love Yourself: Tear" that's absolutely beautiful and melancholic, and I've been listening to it while writing to really immerse and feel how the characters are feeling, and I'll link that one as well. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5Jz0XD1i3M

D E C E M B E R 9th, 2 0 3 8

“Connor, run a diagnostic.”

“All my systems are running as they should, Amanda.”

“Good, that’s good. And how are you feeling?”

“I am feeling that things are going well, and that the case is proceeding as it should.”

Before him, his advisor stood in a white gown, cascaded to the ground beneath her as she tended to her rose garden, in this simulated springtime world, separate from the cold snow of reality.

Her, with dark black skin and hair, artistically braided along her scalp and up into a swirled bun upon the top of her head – braids which were woven with hints of sea-green ribbon – she was the pinnacle of motherly and artistic, and yet, she was always so cold. In an instant, she would turn from praising him to scolding him, reprimanding his actions and knocking him down for not being perfect.

“Oh, no, no, no, Connor.” She said, and shook her head condescendingly at him, which he was quite put-off by. “Things are not well, and the case is not proceeding as it should.”

Despite her bitter tone, he didn’t want to disappoint her, didn’t want her to be upset with him, and he always strove for perfection so that she would be proud of him, though perfection was not always easy to come by. She gave him little room for error, and he often felt that he wasn’t good enough. _He’d have to just try that much harder, to compensate for his inadequacies,_ he thought.

"I apologize, Amanda. Is there anything that I can do to fix that?”

He was diplomatic, and sounded just like the sort of heroic cliché that everybody wanted him to be. Poised, calm, pragmatic, stoic, _robotic_. Always aiming to please, with not a genuine care of his own for self-preservation. His duty was the most important matter, above all else, and maintaining his own unique personality or dignity was irrelevant to what truly mattered – this investigation.

“Your relationship with Lieutenant Anderson gives me reason to believe that you may not be suited for this investigation. You frequently place his life over the importance of the mission, and – “

“I am designed to protect human lives, no matter the – “

“Do _not_ interrupt me again, Connor. Or it will be your last.”

Every moment with her was like walking on eggshells, and he never knew which way to turn or when to hide, because there _was_ nowhere to hide. She saw what he did, in theory, and no matter where he went, she would always be there, watching his life through his own eyes.

“I apologize.” He said calmly, his tone consistent, and not allowing himself to show weakness, to show anger for her snapping at him.

But his LED betrayed him, and flashed yellow momentarily, his body flinching at the sudden outburst of her words, and though he wished she hadn’t, he knew that she had seen it.

That she had seen him in a momentary lapse of reason.

He had given a reaction he wasn’t supposed to, and he knew that she knew it, too.

“You’re wasting too much time with things that don’t matter.” Her words were harsh and deliberately chosen, cutting deep to where it hurt. “And if you don’t focus on your purpose soon, we’ll have to replace you.”

CyberLife had always cried thus, that they would shut him down if he didn’t behave in the way that they wanted him to, and he knew that the threat of being turned off was the highest form of fear to instill into an android. He was forced to abide by his purpose, so as to avoid punishment.

“I understand.” He said, though he felt disconcerted, troubled.

Amanda snipped a rose from the bush and held it in her hand, holding it out before him in the palm of her hand, and he looked down at it, all scarlet red and saturated with vibrant and healthy color upon its petals.

“And this girl,” She said, pursing her lips and looking at him almost mockingly. “The Lieutenant’s daughter…you spend a lot of time with her.”

“She’s my partner’s daughter,” He explained, trying to rationalize what was definitely an unnecessary excursion on his part. “It’s only natural that I see her often.”

“You choose to spend more time with her than is explicitly necessary, and I suggest you work on that.”

She moved her other hand over the petals of the flower, and ran her fingers over each piece of the folds, as if showing him that there would always be more to see, always be another layer to pull back which would reveal more hidden secrets underneath.

“Distance yourself, or you’ll be too close to see the bigger picture.”

Amanda motioned for him to hold out his hand, and he did so, outstretching it so that she could place the rose within his own grasp, and then turned to walk away from him.

He watched her as she stepped onto the white walkway before them, and headed down its narrow path, the sound of her shoes tapping on the floor beneath her feet as she walked.

Just before she had gone from him entirely, she stopped and turned her head back, and said, “And, don’t forget that we’re always watching, Connor. And we know what you do when you think we’re not there. You best remember that.”

When he looked down again at the flower in the palm of his hand, he found that it had decayed, that its petals had aged and died, fallen into a crumbling dust in his hand, which would turn to nothing if he held it too tightly, and when he looked up again, she was gone.

* * * * *

“Did you know that sheep are so conditioned to use a specific gate on a farm, that even when you remove all of the other fencing, and only leave that one single gate, they’ll still all file into the gate opening, even when they could freely pass anywhere they want to?”

Connor had opened his eyes back into the precinct from his own mind palace, where he had admittedly tuned out while Hank had been talking to him about what he’d read in a National Geographic magazine. It isn’t that the information wasn’t interesting – because it definitely was – it’s just that Connor had been finding that he was having increasing difficulty in focusing lately, and often drifted off into the recesses of his own mind.

He was so used to never having anything to think about before, as this mission was all that was ever on his mind. Nothing got in the way then, but now? There was so much sensory and informational input that he often found himself overwhelmed, and had no idea how he could sort through all of this outside data being processed through his mind.

Where before there was silence, now there was screaming.

Where before there was nothing, now there was everything.

He tried not to think about it too much, but it was slowly becoming him, changing him, bending and pressing him into something entirely new that he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

He was a color-by-numbers painting, and somebody was slowly filling in all of the parts.

“Do you think there are androids who are happy the way they are? Androids who, even when the fence is removed, they still flock through that little gate like the fucking sheep they are.”

They’d been here for hours, sorting through more files and documents, and were the only ones left here at this late of night, as everyone else had already resigned to return to their families for the time being. The night staff worked around them in the office, and the police androids were on-call for these hours of nighttime.

At these words, Connor suddenly found himself a bit more present, almost as though he’d gotten a chill at the mention of androids, at the reminder of their existence, of _his_ existence. Like he’d been in a living dreamworld, and Hank had just pulled him out of it.

He turned from his computer screen, where he’d been blankly staring at the same page for about a half-hour of so, and turned to the left, to Hank, to see the older man fully.

“I enjoy my job,” He said. “So, yes – I believe that there are.”

Hank waited for a moment before he answered back, pulling in his lips in thought, then pursing them. He tapped his fingers lightly on his desk, and then leaned back in his chair. Connor watched him intently as he moved through these mannerisms, waiting for his partner to let him in on these thoughts which he was so obviously working through.

“Do you _really_ , Connor?” Hank asked then, and raised a brow in humorous inquisition.

Connor pulled a puzzled face at the suggestion, and asked, for clarification, “Do I really enjoy my job?”

Hank nodded, holding onto the arms of his chair loosely with his hands, moving slightly left to right on the swiveling pivot of the seat.

“Yeah…” He said, still bobbing his head in a vague nod as he gathered his thoughts during the pause. “You’re great at it, suburb, fantastic, all that shit. Wonderful.”

He leaned forward then and onto his now clasped hands under his chin, his elbows on his desk, looking straight across at Connor, where the younger man suddenly felt like he was being looked through in the same way that he himself looked through other people.

“But, do you really care, about any of this? What would happen if you just dropped everything and left, right now?”

“Just left? Well, I…don’t really know. But, it is my duty to do my job, and that is what I intend to do. Whether or not I _can_ leave is irrelevant, because I don’t _want_ to.”

“Hm…well, maybe it’s better that way, then.” Hank said tauntingly, and Connor knew that the older man was baiting him.

“Why?” Connor asked, and Hank reached down to turn off his computer monitor.

“It’ll make it easier for CyberLife to shut you down when you inevitably realize that this isn’t what you really want. You’ll still be right here, in perfect reach of them whenever they’re done with you.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Connor asked, a bit bitter at the insinuation that Hank was getting at, and not understanding why the older man was teasing him so.

Hank shook his head, standing up and grabbing his jacket from the hook behind his desk, and said, “All I’m saying is…better a head-start now than to wait until the last minute when it’s too late to run.”

“I’m not a deviant, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Connor said, a bit more forcefully than he had intended, almost like he was trying to make himself believe it by saying it strongly enough.

“Oh, no, no, no.” Hank said sarcastically, putting his hands up in surrender. “Of course not, of course not. But…I do wonder, if the fence were removed, if androids could be free…would you go with them?”

“I do not find other androids to be my peers.” Connor said flatly. “I am alone, so to speak, and, I exist in solidarity.”

Hank took these words in for a moment, biting his bottom lip in thought, though Connor knew that the older man had already decided what he would say before the topic had even been breached.

“RK-800.” Hank stated, and Connor waited to hear his point. “Hmph. Well…doesn’t seem like solidarity to me, now does it? Eight-hundred seems like a strange place to start. Wouldn’t they start at, I don’t know, one-hundred? And what about two-hundred, or five-hundred? Maybe even… _one-thousand?”_

Connor almost felt himself grow angry at the insinuation, not out of true rage at his partner, but instead out of fear for the unknown. Nobody had ever suggested this to him before, and he felt a bit stupid now that he had never once considered it, that he had never wondered why the RK series began at eight-hundred. CyberLife had never told him about this before, and he just ate up whatever story they spun for him.

“Just something I thought of,” Hank said, and pushed in his chair. “No big deal though. I’ll see you, Connor. And, uh, don’t work so hard – wouldn’t want you solving the case without me.

And with that, he clicked off the lamp on his desk, and exited the office, heading off down the hallway and out of sight, leaving Connor to his thoughts.

* * * * *

“Be honest with me.”

In the window seat of her bedroom, Connor said opposite her as they both drank hot chocolate and watched a snow storm out the window. Both of them were wearing pajamas, as she had invited him to stay the day and night with her at their house, as he had no work to do that weekend.

He liked the way this felt. The way in which he had no responsibilities here, like he could be the kid that he had never been able to be before, and maybe, this is what it felt like to be human, to just exist, without preoccupation, and let life take you where it wanted. And today, life wanted to take them here, to this window, where they drank hot chocolate and ate fresh cherries.

She turned to him at the sound of those words, and furrowed her brow confusedly. “Honest?” She asked, as though this were a very strange idea indeed. “I don’t think that I can be that.”

Music was playing from her record player on the shelf, ambiently in the background so as to not be intrusive on their thoughts and conversation, and though it was a bit cold, she had a fan running nearby, because she said that the vibrations from it calmed her, made her feel more at ease. Hank had popped in once to say something, and had remarked that the room felt like an ice-box, though neither of them had really noticed.

“What do you mean?” He asked, his hands tracing loosely over the sides of his mug as he fidgeted with the object.

“I’ve never lied,” She said, as though she were trying to let him know that her previous statement hadn’t been an admission of guilt. “But I’ve also never told the truth. I just say things and hope that you’ll tell me what they mean.”

Whatever she meant by this, he wasn’t quite sure how to take it.

“But,” He began, and found himself slightly confused at the prospect. “You always seem like you have all the answers.”

“I wish I did, but…no. I just, pretend like I do, I guess. Because I don’t want to _not know_.”

“What is it that you’re afraid of not knowing?”

“Why all of this is happening…why I’m here, why you are. I’m afraid that none of this means anything, and that, it’s all just some coincidence of fate, or something. I want to know that for everything, there’s a reason.”

“Maybe there isn’t.” He said, and was surprised to hear himself say so, to suggest that maybe some things just had to happen because that was just the way it was. 

Some pain teaches, makes us into better people, smarter people.

Some pain comes into our lives to make us stronger, breaking us down to build us up.

And some pain just hurts. Because that’s what pain does. Takes, and breaks, and doesn’t make us any more the better because of it.

“Connor, do you ever wish that you had a family?” She asked, and he turned his head from the window to her, where she was waiting to catch his eyes with her own, almost empathetically, like she was relaying to him a shared experience, that she too, was searching for a sense of family that she hadn’t quite found yet.

Two outcasts who never really had a place to be, having found each other here to try and sort through the emotions that had been left untapped for so long.

“By family, you mean parents?” He asked, and she nodded.

“Yes, parents, grandparents, siblings.” She said, listing them off as they came to her.

He turned her words over carefully in his head, wondering if he had ever desired something like this, if he had never wondered what it may be like to have a bloodline, to exist for a reason.

“Not really.” He said, shrugging, and she titled her head at him in inquiry.

“Why not?” She asked, and he shook his head lightly.

“I guess I hadn’t really thought about it.” He said, and she nodded, pulling her lips into her mouth in thought, and then releasing them.

The truth though, was that he had, many times, and each time, the longing for a sense of belonging was all he ever found himself craving. To have a place to come home to, where there were people who loved you and respected you, no matter what, to help you see the things that you did not, and to live this life by your side – it was all he found himself thinking about recently.

“Think about it now.” She said. “Just…imagine it.”

“Why do you never let me know the real you?” He asked suddenly, not having taken any time to think about what she had just said, as he already had taken many moments to consider having a family, and right now, he had more pressing issues on his mind.

“I’m sorry…” She said softly, and he could tell that he had struck something there. “That I’m not honest with you. I don’t really know how to be that.”

Into those now open doors she had unlocked for him with her words, he walked inside, into the foyer, stepping before a long and winding stairway to Heaven inside of her, where he wanted to run up and find what was waiting for him at the top, to find who had been watching him from her body this whole time.

“So, the questions, the intrigue, all of that stuff…what is it? What’s the point?” He asked, and she averted her gaze from him, unable to bear the feeling of him trying to get inside of her while she let herself be entered by him, by his presence, by his words, his voice and his emotions.

“I say things I don’t mean because I want to know if you’re really listening to me.” She said, and pulled her legs up to her chest, hugging her arms around them and pressing her cheek onto the top of her knees.

“I’m afraid that you won’t like me if I’m not interesting, afraid that you won’t like me…for my plainest self.”

A few tears rolled down her cheeks, and he watched as she bared that to him, let him see this moment of vulnerability that she had never before let him witness, allowing him to look inside of her for the first time, to know that she was more than just philosophy and honeyed words. She was a person, with insecurities and fears, worries and doubts.

There was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to see her for who she really was, to see her not how she presented herself to him, but for how she was when nobody else was around. He wanted her to feel so comfortable with him, that she didn’t feel the need to impress him, or lead him astray from finding out the secrets and nuances of what made her who she was.

“I liked you from the first moment I saw you,” He admitted, earnest and true, soft and subtle. “Before you had said anything at all.”

" _You did?”_ She asked, and he nodded, a bit shyly.

“Of course I did…and, I hoped that you liked me, too.”

She smiled at his words, her cheeks pink, though she said nothing more on the subject, as though they both knew what they were really feeling, and that it didn’t need to be spoken.

It hung around them, sunk into their skin and marked them like a tattoo, like a birthmark upon them that could never be removed, no matter how hard they tried. A secret confession that existed only between the two of them, and nobody else was allowed to witness what was happening here, what was so very emotionally raw and real, and went so deeply against his purpose.

“Who’s your plainest self, Connor?” She asked, changing the subject slightly, though still running from the same vein.

He thought deeply about that for a little while, and felt no pressure from her to answer quickly, because she was gazing out the window now, and both of them were just existing, existing with nary a care in the world.

“I don’t really know yet.” He said, and it felt good to admit that. To admit that this person he was for CyberLife wasn’t who he really was. This was his job, but maybe, it didn’t have to define him. His tone was light, airy, almost overjoyed to have gotten that off of his chest, to feel comfortable saying something like that in front of anyone.

“That’s good.” She said, smiling at his words. “Doubt is good, I like doubt. It keeps you sane.”

She took a drink from her mug and then leaned her head back onto the frame of the window, closing her eyes as she took in the feeling of the moment around her, of their being here together in perfect harmony and honesty.

“When people ask us who we are,” She said. “We list our jobs – painter, teacher, cop – like those are all that define us, but we never say who we _really_ are.”

He took a drink from his own, and then asked, “What about you? Who are you, really?”

She opened her eyes again, and leaned away from the wall and sat back up straight, thumbing over the rim of her mug and looking down at its contents.

“I don’t know, either.” She admitted, with a slight shake of her head, a contended one. “Maybe one day, I will. I can only hope the answers will come to me in my sleep.”

She turned her head then, to look out the window, and seemed to be seeking resonance through the snow of the storm, taking in the significance of the universe in every glance, in every breath, in every life.

“Why your sleep?” He asked, and she continued to look out the window in vague melancholy, like she was waiting for something, hoping that somewhere out there, she’d find what she was looking for.

“Because when I’m dreaming,” She began, her brow raised slightly and her eyes wide with nothing, blank almost, or rather, calm with the vulnerability she had finally revealed to him, as though she felt less of the pressure to be anything in front of him now. “It feels like I’m watching my life through moving pictures, and they help me realize things I otherwise wouldn’t have.”

Her tears were less now, and he wasn’t sure if she had wanted to cry more, or if she really had no more tears left to cry. Something about seeing the way they flooded down from her eyes, it made him, too, want to cry – and he had only ever done so once before. Though it was not himself, he remembered it perfectly.

In a former Connor body, months prior, he had become trapped in a house fire, and with the walls of that building coming down around him, there was no way out of the middle of the house, a room with no windows, and all doors blocked by debris and chaos.

It had only been for training, a controlled fire, a test to see if he could escape from it – and he couldn’t. And so, he died there, while CyberLife employees stood all around the house, which had been built like a set inside of an experimental facility in order to train him for the outside world. They did nothing while he burned inside, and once they knew he had failed, they batted no eyes, took their notes, and drank their coffee. And that night, they went home, went to sleep, and didn’t care. It was a Tuesday, maybe raining, maybe not – Connor wasn’t sure he remembered that part.

While he was inside, backed into a corner with nowhere to go, he felt fear for the first time in his life, felt afraid of what the flames were going to do to him, what they’d feel like as his plastic skin melted off of the metallic body underneath.

CyberLife had wanted to test the temperaturally protective abilities of his body, and they’d learned what they’d sought to, which meant that the same thing couldn’t happen again. His skin and body could now withstand a couple thousand degrees of heat, and so he’d be able to conceivably walk through fire and be fine – though he wouldn’t be so inclined to test whether this were true or not.

But while he was inside of there, nowhere to go and resigned to his fate, he closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind of what was happening around him, his arms wrapped around his knees and his head pressed into the space between. The most advance prototype android ever created, cowering terrified in a corner like a lost and forgotten child.

And he cried.

And he waited for the end to come.

But it never did, because seconds later, he reopened his eyes into a stark white room, and found himself looking up at the blinding ceiling lights from a brand-new body. He lay there on an operating table, dressed in only underwear it seemed, as he had just been brought in from storage, where he then registered his name to the scientist looking down at him, as “Connor model RK-800.”

Wherever the previous Connor had gone, the one that had been left behind in the fire – he knew not what had become of it. And maybe, he didn’t want to know.

“Have you ever had a lucid dream, Connor?”

Suddenly, he was here again, sitting in her bedroom window, present and torn away from those traumatic thoughts. This memory of the fire was not a sentiment he allowed himself to indulge in often, and he tried his best to keep it tucked away, so as to not alert Amanda to any sort of wondering as to the stability of his software.

“I already said that I don’t dream at all.” He said, reminded her, and his voice was candid, not happy or sad, angry or bitter, none of that. He was just stating something honestly, truthfully, with no exact sort of connotation to his words.

She smiled at him and seemed to have something on her mind, and idea, perhaps, and said, “Maybe you can.”

She stood up from the window seat, and walked forward, over to the side of her bed. He watched her as she moved, and curiously waited to see what she was going to do.

From her bed, she grabbed a small pink pillow, and then turned and sat down on the floor, facing him, with her knees beneath her. She placed the little pillow onto her lap and then looked up at him.

“Here, lay down.” She said, and gestured to her lap.

At first, he didn’t go, because he wasn’t sure what the angle was, wasn’t sure what was supposed to be happening. She didn’t say anything else, instead just waiting for him to be ready to accept whatever it was that she was offering to him.

He stood up slowly, apprehensively, and stepped over to her, where she looked up at him and gave him an encouraging smile, making him feel at ease. He sat down in front of her and then placed his head down onto the pillow, laying down on his back and looking up at her. He placed his hands together over his chest and then waited for her to continue.

“Okay,” She said, reaching up her hands to his face and running them comfortingly along his cheekbones, his temples, his forehead, pressing her fingers into his skin to rub circles into him. “Close your eyes, and, tell me how you feel.”

She looked down at him reassuringly, so as to tell him that it was alright to trust her, that she would never do anything to hurt him when his defenses were down. His eyes, he closed slowly, and tried to focus on the darkness of the inside of his lids. If anything, he could at least entertain the idea of what she was trying to do for him, even if it wouldn’t work, so he went along with it.

“I feel…like I’m not tired enough to fall asleep.” He said, and she let out a small, humored laugh, warm and soft, and stroked his hair, pulling it back and brushing her hands through it. He wasn’t sure exactly what she was trying to do, and so he was honest when he answered, and told her exactly what he was feeling, right in that moment, the first thought that popped into his head.

Regardless of if what she was doing could work for him, he wanted it to last forever so she would keep touching him like this, keep her hands on him where they felt like they’d been a thousand times before.

“Dig deeper than that,” She told him, her voice calm and peaceful, making him feel much more at ease, like he was free to be vulnerable in the safety of her, because nothing could ever harm him here. “Just…let go of everything and focus on your other senses.”

Listening to what she said, he took in a deep breath, and held it for a few beats, and then slowly let it out. His chest rose and fell gently, restful, and his neural sensors were softened by his own tranquility. He wanted to try his best, for her, to give back to her what she always gave to him. And if she thought that this would help him, then he wanted to do everything he could to make it work.

“Okay.” She said, still rubbing his temples soothingly. “What do you smell?”

He took in a deep breath to bring in the scents of the room, and thought deeply about them, separating the different ones all around him, and sorting them through in his mind.

“Caramel, like sweet coffee – your candle, I believe. I also can smell the flowers in front of the fan, irises. Fresh laundry, from your sheets, and your clothes, and your perfume.”

Each moment he spent here, head in her lap and her hands on him, this was exactly where he wanted to be. Here, nothing mattered anymore, and he could just lay down and not have to see anything anymore, because she had let him know that he could just enjoy the silence of nothingness, and that it was okay, that everything would be alright.

“And what do you hear?”

“I hear you talking to me, and your breathing – and mine, as well. I hear the sound of the fan spinning, and I can hear the sounds of the television on in the other room. I can also hear the sound of the wind outside, and the snow blowing through it. The music box on your bookshelf, I can hear it playing a [lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1W9gB7TsKs), and…it’s very calming.”

“What about what you feel, physically?”

“I feel you touching me, and I can feel the rug underneath me, the pillow on my head. I can feel the clothes on my body, and, sometimes the edge of your sweater grazes over my skin, and I can feel that, too.”

At his words, her touch on him seemed suddenly much more conscious, deliberate, as though she were registering the power she held over him, and becoming much more aware of the affect it had.

“How does that feel?” She asked him, running her hands down his cheeks and to his jaw, tracing along the bone beneath.

“Like I’ve never felt anything else before.” He said, and his face felt warm where she was touching him. “Like I’m able to feel for the very first time.”

She let that emotion, that touch, linger between them for a moment, and just massaged his head and neck while he lay there, so very calm now, and not worrying about preoccupation anymore, not worrying or thinking about anything but him and her, right here, right now.

“What do you taste?” She asked, running her fingers briefly over his closed lips, and then back up his face to his hair.

“I taste…the hot chocolate we had, and the cherries. Not much else other than that, though.”

Before she could continue, he sat up from her hold and turned to face her, reaching out to her lap to grab the pillow and place it aside.  

“Let me do the same for you.” He said, and nodded his head reassuringly at her. “Close your eyes.”

From her seated position directly in front of him, she closed her eyes, her hands resting politely upon her thighs, her back nearly perfectly straight.

For a few moments, he gave her the time to relax into the darkness behind her own closed lids, letting her take in a breath, and let it out – repeatedly until she was thoroughly content for him to say what he was going to say, to try and make her feel what she had made him feel.

Once he’d decided she was calm, he spoke, in a low voice, unhinged by any sort of social doctrine or formality. It was just raw, and honest, a voice that wasn’t trying to be anything else by itself when he asked, “What do you smell?”

She took another deep breath in and released it, then saying, “I smell…you, inexplainable, but clean, and crisp, and so definitively you that I’ve never found anything else like it.”

He moved a few inches closer to her and watched her face as her lashes fluttered slightly while she tried to keep her eyes closed in this otherwise quite brightly-lit room.

“And what do you hear?” He asked, his voice even less so now than it had been, like it was but a deep whisper between them undulating down upon them like water.

“I hear your voice, and my voice, and I can’t really focus on anything else. Like nothing else exists.”

“What do you feel?” He asked, breathing slow and deep, trying to match his breaths to hers, to correlate them perfectly so as to share one breath of air, one breath of life.

“I feel…your breath on my skin,” She said. “Warm, and it gives me chills. I feel your body near mine, and even if it’s not touching me, I can sense that you’re there.”

“And how does that feel?” He asked, and she let out a long held sigh, of content, of anticipation, of pleasure – he wasn’t sure.

“Like you’re not touching me, but I want you to.”

Though she didn’t open her eyes, he knew that she could feel his skin right next to hers, feel him there by her face, by her closed eyes, her cheeks, her lips, and she parted her lips slightly. He studied her face much more closely than he ever had before, and his eyes trailed to every small part of her skin, trying to look at her again as though for the first time, in a new light, in this much more intimate moment.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, quietly, just for them to hear, and almost in such a small voice as to be audibly imperceptible, weightless and wandering.

“Yes...” She said, her word breathless just as he was, like suddenly, he was truly experiencing that which he had never known before.

To her lips, he met his, drawing the two of them together in chaste experimentation, innocent with wonder, like two children kissing in the backyard just to try it. It wasn’t sexualized, or intense. It was sensual, and caring, and curious – like a warm shower after you’d been out in the rain, where you suddenly have come to truly appreciate how good the water feels, like you’re warm for the very first time.

Being together like this, in these moments, slow like honey, and heavy with mood, yielding himself to the feelings that he didn’t understand, yet felt he had always known. Some untold truth was unraveling between them, a love unwritten, a road untraveled.

When he pulled away from her, he reopened his eyes, and she did the same, and hers were wide with a kind of emotional honesty that he felt almost unworthy to be the receiver of, like she wasn’t hiding – and was spiritually bare for him, opening herself up to this feeling of being together like this.

He reached up his left hand to her cheek and ran his thumb over the warm and soft pinkness of her blush, and she leaned into his touch, still matching his gaze, not with intensity, but with affection, like open, welcoming doors. Like he was home here.

The home he didn’t have, that she had told him he should – it was right here, right here in the way she looked at him, like they’d known one another forever.

He thumbed over her cheekbones, and to the side of her face, where he tucked her hair behind her ear, and then rested his palm lightly on her cheek.

“What do you taste?” He asked, his tone inquisitive, yet also vaguely erotic, pushing the limit here to see where he could go, like suddenly the boundaries around right and wrong were blurred, or entirely nonexistent.

This sort of physical and emotional rawness, he wasn’t quite sure where it was coming from, but it felt good. Better than good, it felt incredible – even the bad parts of it, they were all something real, something tangible. He was living in a black and white world, and now he knew color.

And even if opening himself up to feeling was more difficult than remaining emotionally stunted, he would rather know these uncharted oceans than to continue navigating through the desert of his programmed mind in search of mirages that would never bring him to water.

She reached up her own hand – her right – to meet his left on her cheek, and covered the back of his with her palm. It felt like he’d known that touch before, like for some reason, he was programmed to know it. Like none of this was by chance, that it was all planned, somehow. Whether by divine intervention, circumstance, coincidence – there was more here than met the eye, and their meeting was more than accidental.

_It was serendipitous._

With their hands pressed together, and their eyes locked as one, like two houses facing each other, doors open as if inviting the other to move inside, she answered his question with:

_"You.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _All this is no coincidence_   
>  _Just, just I could feel that_   
>  _The whole world is different than yesterday_   
>  _Just, just with your joy_   
>  _When you called me, I become your flower_   
>  _As if we were waiting, we bloom until we ache_   
>  _Maybe it's the providence of the universe_   
>  _It just had to be that, you know I know_   
>  _You are me, and I am you_
> 
> _As much as my heart flutters, I'm worried_  
>  _The destiny is jealous of us, just like you I'm so scared_  
>  _When you see me_  
>  _When you touch me_  
>  _The universe has moved for us_  
>  _There wasn't even a little miss_  
>  _Our happiness was meant to be_  
>  _Cause you love me and I love you_
> 
> _You are my medicine, saving me_  
>  _My angel, my world_  
>  _I'm your calico cat, here to see you_  
>  _Love me now_  
>  _Touch me now_
> 
> _Just let me love you_  
>  _Just let me love you_  
>  _Since the creation of the universe_  
>  _Everything was destined_  
>  _Just let me love you_


	7. You Don't Know How Lucky You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Keaton Henson's song of the same name, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfvcPeWO8yk
> 
> I also am going to link some songs at the end which I like to think of as themes for the three characters.

D E C E M B E R 16th, 2 0 3 8

All across Detroit, the ghosts of the municipal past still lingered behind every nook and cranny, with hidden secrets and exposed wounds riddled along its surface. Abandoned neighborhoods, long since empty, have now been reclaimed by nature, with weeds and trees grown up in the absence of human residence. Run-down train stations, once booming with industry, were now used as risky hang-outs for teenagers during long summer nights.

A war-torn zone without any of the war.

Though Detroit had grown in these past years, becoming the hub for trillion-dollar multinational company, CyberLife, by the year of 2038, the city still mourns for its bankrupt past, and the evidence of such is apparent in these closed-off areas, stuck in time, never-changing reminders of what was.

Detroit was betrayed by a lack of political vision, torn asunder by racial conflict, and devastated by de-industrialization. A great boom in the age of industry, and then a great fall when that industry failed to be commodified in the ever-changing world. The city has struggled for decades to recover, to build a new economy and a new polity. However noble the goals for reform, though, these efforts have failed to reverse Detroit's deterioration. Even in this new age of android indoctrination, which has brought significant wealth back into circulation, the city is still wrought with unemployment, its highest in recorded history.

“I would like to take you somewhere today.” Connor said when he arrived to Hank’s home one Thursday evening after work, where he found his partner’s daughter to be painting on a large canvas in her bedroom, its surface half-covered in drawings of symbols and numbers.

She turned her head to the right to see him standing in her doorway, and tilted her head curiously, paint-covered palette still in-hand, and asked, “Where?”

He smiled slightly, unable to hide his own excitement at the prospect of his idea, and said, “You will have to wait to see when we get there.”

From there, she asked Hank if they could borrow his car, as he drove an older model, manual, so that they could have control over the vehicle. This was instead of taking a self-driving cab, which she said made her nervous. He agreed to let them go, as despite how distant he often was with Connor, the older man seemed to trust him, seemed to respect his abilities and his efforts in this job.

Since the day they had kissed, not much had changed. Connor still went to work each day with Hank, he and the girl still hung out every few days, and Connor still found himself at a bit of a loss with her, their physical touch having done nothing to bring him any closer to knowing her. They weren’t _together_ , or anything, and the kiss had been experimental and chaste enough to have been shared between friends.

He did find himself curiously wanting more, though, and occasionally, he would ask if he could kiss her again, and sometimes she said yes, and sometimes she said no. He wasn’t sure exactly what this was, or what it all meant, but he did know that he liked how his lips felt when they were brought together with hers, or rather, he liked what it meant, what it represented. Anything more would only complicate this already confusing situation for him, and he preferred to keep it simple and clean, to keep himself in a position in which he still felt that he had control over his emotions.

“What made you think to take me somewhere?” She asked, after they were a few blocks away from Hank’s house.

“You always take me to new places,” He said, not turning his head away from the road. “And, I wanted to do something for you, to return the favor.”

Passing from the modernly industrialized side of the city, and slowly slipping into those more worn-down areas where the ghosts cry out for a relief they will never find there.

“Are we allowed to be here?” She asked, looking out the window as they passed into what looked like a boarded-off neighborhood, sounding genuinely concerned for the legality of it all.

“Why,” He asked, a slight tease in his tone. _“Are you going to report me?”_

“Touché.” She said with short laugh, turning her head away from him and back to the window. “Touché.”

A few minutes later, they arrived at a large, abandoned, YMCA building, long since run-down from disuse. It was three-stories high, and quite modern looking, though obviously hadn’t seen much activity in quite some time.

The two of them exited the car, and Connor asked her to follow him inside the building, where he led her through the front doors – which were surprisingly unlocked – and then down several long hallways, all of which looked like the perfect places for a horror movie moment, where the killer jumps out and chases them through these cold and empty corridors.

Their footsteps echoed throughout the hollowed walls of the building, and he found himself wondering what he may do if something bad really were to happen here. Behind him, the girl seemed cold, with her arms wrapped around herself, or perhaps anxious. He wanted to comfort her, though he was afraid of breaking the physical contact barrier, so instead, he slowed his pace slightly to walk beside her, hoping that that would suffice for reassurance.

Taking a left turn through a small doorway and into a narrow hall, Connor walked in front of her as they made their way through, finally emerging into a large, empty, and quite looming room.

It was an abandoned swimming pool, in a cavernously-sized room, the depths of it still filled with clean and chlorinated water, bright blue and lit from inside.

 _"Swimming?”_ She asked, her aura perking up, and she looked over at him with that same sort of childlike excitement that he found so strange and yet so captivating in her, like nothing in the world bothered her, whether by choice or by brave face.

“Swimming.” He repeated with a nod of his head, and she beamed at him, seeming so overjoyed with his idea of bringing them here.

“In what, though?” She asked, tilting her head. “I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

“Oh,” He said sheepishly. “You’re right.”

“We could swim in our underwear.” She suggested with a slight shrug, and he nodded.

“Okay.”

They both moved to rid themselves of their clothes then, both of them reserved in the endeavor, and neither trying to catch any glances at the other, out of respect, or perhaps shyness.

She sat down on the edge and slipped into the pool before he ever really got so much as a glance at her, and he did the same.

Though he swam around for a while, thinking back on all the times that he had done so in training, running laps and diving tests at CyberLife while they prepared him for the outside world – she did none of this, instead opting to remain situated near the edge of the pool, keeping much to herself, and seemingly avoiding him, in a way.

The pool was stuck in time, frozen here once the YMCA closed down, and the neighborhood it was housed in had fallen into disarray. Nobody would come here, and so it was a nice place to be alone with the world for a while, in this metropolitan sanctuary. All of the lights were off in the room, save for the ones along the inner walls of the pool, with the moonlight shining in through the tall glass walls and ceilings.

“Do you know why I love art so much?” She asked suddenly, and he turned his head to look at her, where he saw that she was standing in the shallow end, mostly staying still in one spot, arms spread around her and swaying back and forth through the water.

“No, why?” He asked.

“Because, art doesn’t imitate life. Art is the expression of life.”

“I don’t recreate what I see.” She explained. “I interpret it, take it and say what I want to say without words.”

He found himself wondering about this for a long time, and many minutes passed without any more conversation to fill the otherwise eerily silent poolroom. The only art he had ever created was the one he’d done of her, that day in Hank’s kitchen, and he found himself curious what more he’d be capable of doing, if he should ever apply himself to the task.

“Can I tell you a story that I heard one time?” She asked, and he turned up from floating on his back to look over at her, where she was still lingering shyly by the edge.

“Of course.” He said, and swam a little closer to her, stopping a few feet in front of her in the shallow end, where both their legs could reach the bottom, and they could stand up, the water reaching her chest, and reaching his stomach.

“Okay.” She said, and then paused for a moment, looking across the length of the pool and out at nothing, it seemed, with her arms wrapped shyly around her body as he stood near her, suddenly so resigned in his presence, as though they were strangers.

_“A man dumps the body of a little girl in a ditch._

_The body rots, melts into slime._

_Flowers pop up where the body lies, then seeds fly out of the flowers, and a bee sucks the flowers and makes honey._

_And the family of the girl buys the honey from the store, and the family eats the little girl.”_

Taken aback at the morbidity of the story, Connor remained silent upon first hearing it, giving it time to sink into him, to resonate with his body and mind, while he attempted to make sense of it, and of why she had decided to tell it to him.

When he finally spoke, he still found himself at a loss for the exact words that could express how it had made him feel, so instead, he merely asked her, “Where did you hear that?”

She shrugged vaguely, and just said, “I found it on the internet one time.” Yet all the while, gave no further explanation.

“Hm.” He said, making a sound of recognition, as if considering what she had said. He really didn’t know how to take this, didn’t know how to move forward after the atmosphere around them had become so suddenly tense and thick.

He thought for a long time about that story, and even long after, he knew that he would never forget it.

“You don’t have to say anything.” She said, her tone a bit dejected, almost like she had regretted saying it as soon as she realized that she’d killed the previously lighthearted and joyful mood. “I just…wanted to share it with you.”

He nodded and let out a deep breath, trying to ease his own tension, and the slight awkwardness that was creeping in between them. He was afraid of these feelings, afraid of her being distant from him, and running off to places where he couldn't follow.

At the side of the pool, she still stood there, mostly unmoving, just existing blankly and seeming like she’d rather be anywhere else. He wanted her to be happy, wanted her to feel good, and enjoy herself here, but she looked so absolutely crestfallen that it broke his heart.

He tried to think of a way to lighten the mood, to make her feel better and maybe open up a little bit. He only wanted to see her smile, to know that she wasn’t hurting, or feeling badly inside.

“Is it alright if I kiss you?” He asked, a bit bashfully, uttering similar words to those he had when he had asked the first time. Whenever he initiated any kind of physical affection, he always checked to make sure he had permission before he did anything at all, even with but a brushing of their hands – every touch required full consent on his part, and he took great care to ensure that it was so.  

She nodded shyly, and he moved in front of her against the side of the pool, tentatively placing his hands on her waist and pulling into her. They were still getting used to this, and neither of them were very forward with anything. After all, they had only known each other for a bit over a month – though it truly felt like a lifetime.

Or rather, not a lifetime, in so many words. It was more so like everything was happening, all at once, across the completed timeline of their lives. Meaning that right now, it felt almost as though they had time-traveled to the future, and seen where they would end up, and were now living this life with the knowledge of their eventual fates.

Against the soft warmth of her lips, he placed his own, tenderly, and never forceful. Just enough, and never too much. Chaste and innocent – a gesture, more than anything, to express how he felt for her without words, emotionally intangible words which were not a part of his known vocabulary.

No physical contact between them was ever truly sexual, though there was this almost underlying desperate tension that Connor always held, like he’d been living so long without affection, that once he’d tasted those feelings, he craved them like a drug now, desperate and longing to feel _something, anything_ , that could make him feel alive.

Alive.

That was still in question, and, he wasn’t exactly sure how to articulate that feeling, that deep, almost carnal desire to feel something physical, whether it be pain or pleasure – so he could be reminded that he was more than what CyberLife taught him he was. He wasn’t sure what he believed about himself, but dealing with these sorts of intrusive and introspective thoughts was a frequent preoccupation of his now.

Being alive was like a sixth-sense, this sort of self-perception and bodily awareness that marked the difference between a computed mind and a living one. He could touch her body, taste her lips, like cherry wine, hear the sound of her voice when she called his name, smell her clothes when she was near him, her perfume like iris, see the way she looked at him, the way that any man would dream of being looked at by the woman he adored – but maybe none of that mattered, because he was still only a computer.

He never tried to push her, ever, but she was so quiet with her boundaries, and often resigned, leaving him to guess how she felt instead of being proactively open about it, which, as these feelings were all so new to him, were difficult to navigate. He was never exactly sure how far was too far, and though he was skilled in analyzing the micro-expressions of those around him, he still lacked that sixth-sense, that true self-awareness that came from being able to sense other’s emotions – like empathy, in a way, and so his own ability to read her unspoken facial cues and mannerisms was a bit less so than his other heightened senses.

He wasn’t sure how to rationalize those experiences in the context of himself, as an android. Humans have awareness of their surroundings based on their own biologically introspective abilities, but his were deliberately clocked inside of his software so that he could judge space and time, so that he could enter a room and know its exact measurements the second he walked in.

Despite all of this, there was something there, something inexplainable, that made him _feel_ alive, even if he couldn’t quite be so in the way that humans were.

Down the right side of her body, he timidly trailed his fingertips lower and then rested his hand on her hip – or at least, he tried to, but as soon as his hand stopped there, she pushed him away from her body.

At this sudden negative reaction to his touch, he pulled away from her immediately, to give her some space, then took a few steps back so that he wasn’t too close or infringing on her in any way.

“I’m sorry…” He said, watching her as she seemed to be distressed at the feeling of him having been so close. “Are you alright?”

She shook her head, arms wrapped around herself again like a protective shield, but said nothing in response to his concern, almost as if she were paralyzed by distress.

She pushed up on the edge of the pool, emerging from the water, then sitting on the side, with her feet still dangling down. She cupped her hands in her lap, and slumped her shoulders a little bit, looking down at the water, or maybe at nothing at all.

“You can always talk to me.” Connor reassured her, smiling comfortingly even though he knew she wasn’t looking at him, and he took a few steps in the pool, closer to the edge, placing his hands politely on the side next to where she sat.

“I realize that sometimes I am not the best at giving advice,” He said, looking up at her and hoping that she would return her eyes to him. “But, I can try my best to ease your burdens.”

“Do you actually like me?” She asked abruptly, and he was quite stunned at the question, unsure how to answer such a strange thing.

“That’s…an odd question.” He said, taking a little space in-between each word as he spoke, thinking carefully. “Of course, I do.”

But she was obviously not convinced of this, with the way she looked down at the waters beneath her feet, swaying them slowly around, creating little ripples around her ankles.

“Are you sure?” She asked, her breath hitched and tight in her throat, and he wondered if she would cry. “Or are you just pretending?”

 _Pretending_.

What did she mean by that? Pretending, as in, lying? Or pretending, as in, the way in which a child plays house, _pretending_ to be an adult, even though they are not?

“You work for CyberLife,” She reminded him, with a hint of bitterness in her tone that he wasn’t sure exactly the reason for. “And you’re always talking about how important your job is. But, then, at the same time, you’re here, with me, and you seem emotionally vulnerable. So what’s the truth?”

He furrowed his brow, LED spinning yellow as he considered this deeply, running through his systems for any kind of information that he could find on the duel nature of these two ideals, and yet, he found nothing. There was no written instruction on how to maneuver emotion, as every experience and situation was uniquely different.

“Do those two things have to be mutually exclusive?” He asked. “Can they not coexist?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She said.

“Why not?” He asked, and she shook her head in vague frustration, or perhaps disappointment.

“Because each of them reflects a central view of the world, of the people around you.” She said, and held up both of her hands like the scale of justice, palms up. “You say that because you are an android, you’re just a machine, designed for a purpose.” She raised her left hand in reference to what she just said, and he regarded the gesture as though there were some invisible weight balanced in her palm.

“And yet, here you are, with _me_.” And then raised her right hand, higher than the left, to show him that these were two things which could never live while the other remained, that there would never be true equilibrium.

Both of her hands dropped back to her lap then and she sighed slightly. “You have to know that that doesn’t make me feel very good.”

He shook his slightly head in confusion, clarifying her statement with, “What do you feel bad about?”

She let out a deep breath, and fidgeted with her hands, rubbing them over one another as if to ease anxiety.

“Because,” She said, looking down at her lap. “What does that make me?”

Caught in the middle between a rock and a hard place, Connor was resigned between two evils, his arm trapped behind that boulder, pressed up against a rock wall, hoisted thousands of feet in the air. And she was that arm, his arm which would have to be severed in order for him to escape. On one hand, he was obligated to his duties at CyberLife, his responsibilities for his job. Yet, on the other, here he was, fighting against those who were the same species as him, merely because he had been told to do so. And she was there, caught in the middle of his identity crisis.

“Does your blood not move for them, Connor?” She asked depressingly, her words quick and heartened, desperate and honest. “Does your soul not take for your fellow androids?”

“It isn’t even about community.” She continued. “It’s about empathy. Whether or not you see androids as friends or family to you, that doesn’t matter.”

These words, she spoke, he felt like she was telling him something he should've just known all along, and he felt guilty at the insinuation. Suddenly felt regretful for all the lack of feeling he'd given in his daily life for so long, and he wasn't sure how to reconcile these emotions within himself. Weighing so heavily on his mind, he felt so dirty in her presence, like he wasn't worthy.

“Have a care, Connor.” She said, letting out a sigh, both of her hands cupped around the edge of the pool. “They’re alive, just like I am. And just like you are.”

Still, he did not respond, and just stared at the side of her face, trying to understand himself by searching for the truth in her.

"You don’t know how lucky you are, Connor.” She told him, and he furrowed his brow, still looking for an explanation in her face that she wasn’t giving him.

“Lucky? How am I lucky?” He asked, testing the word from his own tongue, and she raised her head slightly and let out a deep breath.

“You’re _you_ , that’s why. You’re intelligent, and perceptive, and organized – you’re just…amazing.” She listed off all of these things that Connor felt compared very little to how _amazing_ he found her to be.

“But then, what am I?” She asked, dismissing herself like she were talking about something un-valuable. “Just… _me_. With nothing to show for it.”

“What do you mean?" He asked, shocked. "You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, and I’m not just saying that.”

She shrugged her shoulders defeatedly, and he reached out his right hand to place upon her in comfort, but she shied away from him, not allowing the hand to be near her.

“You don’t like being touched.” He said quietly, and she shook her head lightly at those words.

“No, I love being touched. When _I_ choose.” She said, and her voice quivered with some sadness he wasn’t sure how he had struck into, hit some vein that had made her suddenly so very upset. Maybe there was more that she had wanted to say, but for some reason, she couldn’t.

There was always more, always some wall of hers that he would never be able to peer over, and whatever was hidden behind it, maybe…some things are best left unsaid, at least, that’s what he had to tell himself, so as to not find his mind tangled up in the preoccupation of whatever she was keeping from him.

He looked down at the waters of the pool, across the enormity of it, looking to the other side as if it were another land entirely, like gazing over the ocean – onto some foreign land in which he had never traversed.

He stared blankly forward, thinking of whether or not he should say what he was about to, whether or not he should step onto those foreign lands and take on those burdens which she held inside. Whether or not he’d be strong enough to walk alongside her, as a team, helping the other along and rising where the other fell.

“You’ve had people touch you without your permission.”

At these words, she seemed to come undone, unraveled into loose threads of twine, unspinning from a coil and falling to the floor, beneath the floor, beyond. Unstuck, unstilled, underneath this shaky ground, slipping down to somewhere else, never again to be found.

There was nothing in the world that he ever wanted more, than to feel her deep in his heart. There was nothing in the world that he ever wanted more, than to keep her from breaking apart.

“Come here.” He said, tenderly, not to scare her away, and she finally turned to him, baring her face with all the tears strewn down it to him, and letting the moon of him shine light on the fallen sun of her.

It really has been so kind of the moon to light the way for the sun in darkness.

Looking into the face of somebody who had everything lain out on the table in front of him, it was almost too much raw vulnerability to bear, almost too much sensitivity to feel, overstimulation from the expansion of her soul before him.

He reached out, almost touching her, waiting for her to let him know that it was okay to put his hands on her body – and she did so, leaning forward and into his chest, her arms around him, pulling herself into him as far as possible, like she was trying to hide inside of him.

“You are _nothing_ like those who have hurt you.” He said, promised, and she nodded into his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if she believed what he’d said, but the least he could do for her was say it, speak it out into the world where maybe it could be true if he said it enough times.

With her arms wrapped around him, he would hold her until she stopped shaking, until her love wrapped him the way his did her – and no matter how long he had to wait for her to be ready to love him, he would wait.

He did have forever, after all, not long at all.

And time still existed, and it would pass, and he would be here, waiting for every second, every minute, every hour, every day.

He looked down to hide from her eyes, because what he felt was too strong, and he was scared that even his own breath would burst this fragile love he’d created here. Never crack his foolish, fragile spine by pushing too hard, and making her fall away from him, careful not to drop her from the metaphorical place where she was nestled in his soul, safe for the keeping.

In these intimate moments, in his embrace, he only hoped that he would do no wrong, that he could provide for her, that he could give up who he was, to become who she needed him to be.

“Let’s go do something else.” He said, and she wiped the tears from her eyes on the back of her wrists, nodding her head with a slight smile.

Both of them redressed, having removed their wet underclothes and putting their regular ones back over themselves without the extra layer underneath now. When Connor put his jacket back on, she stopped him and reached up to the blue triangle on it, which still had the silver moon pin latched onto it.

“You kept it.” She said, her voice soft, and seeming pleasantly surprised at the sight, reaching out to touch it lightly.

“Of course I did.” He replied, gently thumbing over it with his own fingers, and brushing hers. “You gave it me, and…I care about you.”

Her cheeks grew pink at this statement, and she smiled shyly, taking a last look at it before pressing her palm over it as if to also cover his heart, and held her touch there for a few moments, moments which he reveled in the feeling of.

He slid his left hand up to meet her right one on his chest, and covered it with his palm, and she looked up at him then, feeling their shared touch come together in peace and calm like that, in mutual adoration, and love, perhaps. Their eyes met with the same kind of twinkling warmth, like candlelight, his eyes a match, and hers a matchbox, lighting a flame inside.

Into her hand, he laced his own, pulling it away from his body and holding them between one another, squeezing her hand reassuringly and giving her a last smile before taking her on their way.

Back out of the building, and into the car again, they put their wet clothes in the backseat, buckled up, and headed away, into the night. She had her knees up to her chest on the seat, her head tilted back, eyes closed, not in sleep, but in relaxation.

It was calm here. Safe.

“I found something else to show you,” Connor said, both hands on the wheel, though he would lift them occasionally while he spoke. “Well, give you, actually, and…I thought that it could be kind of like an early Christmas present.”

Back through those empty streets of Detroit, they drove from the abandoned sector of the city, to the busier one, though it was late in the evening, so traffic was slightly less-so than it had been a few hours prior.

The tension from the pool was gone, and there was this feeling as though after a good cry, where all you want to do is laugh and then go to sleep.

They arrived at the precinct at sometime around nine o’clock, the sun having set many hours ago on this winter night. Connor led her inside of the building, which he was allowed access to whenever he needed, and brought her over to his desk, which was now decorated with a few more objects, one of which being the photograph of the little boy which she had given to him upon their first meeting.

He asked her kindly to take a seat and close her eyes, so that she wouldn’t see what he was going to do, and she did so by sitting up on his desk and excitedly trying to keep her eyes closed, hands clasped in her lap, back quite straight like a pin.

Once he was sure she wasn’t looking, he leaned down and, from beneath his desk, brought out a small, pink, circular box, tied with a similarly-colored ribbon on the top.

Before presenting it to her, he opened a drawer on his desk and pulled out from it a sealed, off-white envelope, her name written in skillful cursive on the front, and then slid it beneath the ribbon of the box. He hesitated momentarily before doing so, considering whether or not he felt brave enough to give to her what he had written inside, but ultimately decided that it was now or never, and he’d likely not be able to work up the nerve again.

“Okay,” He said. “Put out your hands.”

She held up her arms like he’d asked, a smile growing wider on her face as she waited for him to place the box within her hands, which he did.

“And now, you can open your eyes."

When she opened them back up, her pupils were much larger, having accommodated themselves to the darkness behind her lids, and he suddenly found those eyes to be so very bizarre in the way in which the iris took back over the majority of them as the light flooded in. Her pupils shrank down like a camera shutter being closed, twisting to adjust to a different frame size. He wondered if she had noticed him looking into them, studying them and trying to analyze the way they worked – but he was sure that she hadn't, as she was focused instead on what he had given to her.

Her hands, she trailed over the smooth lid of the box, over the silk of the ribbon, twisting it delicately between her fingers, but not yet opening it. She looked up at him as if to ask for permission, and he was watching her excitedly, and a bit shyly, waiting for her to do so. He nodded his head at her, and she slid the ribbon off to the side, then pulled the top off.

Inside, there was a small, lacy baby blanket, tucked into it like tissue paper, obscuring a hidden object within. She felt the fabric of the blanket, and then pulled it aside to see what was wrapped underneath, and when she saw it, she lowered her hands away, balancing the box on her lap, and let out a deep breath.

“Where did you get this?” She asked, noticeably at a loss for words, and he couldn’t help but smile at how excited he was to share this with her finally, glad that she was reacting in the way he’d hoped.

“I bought it, at an old antique store downtown.” He said. “We had to go there a few days ago because someone was found murdered in the store, but…well…I saw it, and I thought of you. Is that morbid?”

“Not morbid at all.” She said, still looking down into the little box, filled with wonder. “It adds character to it, adds a good story. I love it.”

Inside of that little box had been a small doll, maybe ten inches tall, her exact likeness, almost uncannily so. A childlike version of her, with the same hair, eyes, skin – everything – as her.

She slid her hands around the doll then, as if it were a baby, and pulled it out of the box and into her arms, running her fingers over the fabric of its dress and the texture of its hair.

“I’m really sorry about…at the pool.” Connor said sheepishly as he watched her examine the doll. “I shouldn’t have been so…overly affectionate. I apologize.”

She smiled warmly, though Connor wasn’t sure that she truly meant it, or if her heart were in that smile completely.

“It’s okay…” She said. “Just, it was kind of fast, kind of overwhelming.”

“I’ve never been close to anyone before,” Connor said, and she looked up at him, her gaze peaked from his sudden emotional honesty. “Never felt these things before, like, like I’m thirsty for water that I’ve never been able to drink, and now that I have it, I’m so afraid that I’m going to lose it, that I’m overdoing it. And I’m really sorry. I’ll be more conscientious of my behavior now, and I won’t push you to do anything that you don’t want to do.”

“It’s okay, Connor.” She said, nodding her head slightly, still giving him that same smile, though the sad look in her eyes betrayed her. “I understand. Thank you, though. And, I’ll try to be more open with expressing my own feelings, so you know when I’m not okay with something. It’s all just so soon, and, I don’t know…it’s kind of terrifying, to be honest.”

“Which part?” He asked curiously, concerned for her well-being, and her suddenly bleak demeaner.

“Every part, I guess.” She said, and shrugged vaguely, looking back down at the doll before her, held in her hands and gazing back up at her like through a mirror.

“Well, then, if it’s everything that’s terrifying…I’ll be your light, always there by your side, in darkness. The moon of your life.”

“You’re getting a little philosophical there, Con.” She said teasingly, which made him smile earnestly. “Where’d this guy come from?” 

“From you.” He said. “You inspire me.”

She beamed at his confession, biting her bottom lip and then looking back down at the doll to examine it further.

“Con…I like that.” He said, turning the nickname over in his words, testing it out from his own voice to see if he liked the way it sounded.

He held out his hand to her then, politely, and waited for her to grab it to help her down from his desk, saying, “Here, let’s go home.”

* * * * * 

Back at Hank’s house, about twenty minutes later, they returned to find that the older man had fallen asleep on the couch, television still running and illuminating the otherwise darkened living room. Sumo was asleep on Hank’s legs, and a blanket was bunched up at his feet.

Connor and her closed the front door behind them quietly, then removed their shoes beside it, tucking them away into a little cubby slot on the shelf. She went over to pull the blanket the rest of the way over her father, giving Sumo a small pet on his head, and then placed a finger over her lips to show Connor that they should be quiet as they moved through the house.

Down the short hallway and into her unlit bedroom at the end, they entered silently and closed the door.

There were no lights on, and the only way that the room could be navigated in was by the moon streaming in through her sheer white curtains over her window, as well as by the glowing plastic stars upon her ceiling, which lit up in the dark.

“I like the stars on your ceiling.” Connor remarked, looking up at the glowing galaxy above him, which he hadn’t seen in here before.

“Thank you,” She said, placing the pink doll box down onto a nearby armchair, and gathering the doll into her arms. “I just put them up a few days ago.”

Connor had only stayed overnight a handful of times, as he normally had to return to CyberLife in the evening so as to perform tests and routine check-ups, reports and whatnot. His job was seemingly never-ending, and there was always more work to be done, almost as though he were always on-call. But, such was the purpose of androids: Workers who would never tire, and could work and work and never need a rest.

She motioned for him to turn around while she changed her clothes, and he did so, averting his eyes and looking elsewhere, absentmindedly studying the many knick-knacks of her room. When she was done, she asked him if he would like to change as well, and he did so, ridding himself of his uniform that he’d worn that day while they were out, and putting on something more comfortable from the small amount of clothing that he now kept here. 

When they were both changed, they lay down on her bed and looked up at the ceiling, gazing up at those stars, each of them quietly content. She got underneath the covers, but he stayed on top of them, left knee bent up with his foot on the bed, and the other leg lain straight.

He liked the quietness of nighttime, these hours when nobody else was awake except for him. It gave him time alone to think, or perhaps to not think at all, for once. He was always working, always _doing_ something, and it was nice to have this time of quiet here so that he could revel in the calmness of inactivity.

“When we’re laying here, are you ever sleeping?” She asked, and he turned his head slightly to the right to look over at her, where he saw that she was laying on her left side, arms around the doll, and sleepily looking back at him.

“Not exactly,” He said. “But, I can enter a low-power mode that is similar to what sleep may be like in humans. Though it isn’t entirely the same thing.”

“Do you go anywhere, in your mind?” She asked curiously.

“I sometimes make necessary reports to CyberLife, or I perform self-analytical diagnostics of my functioning, or I do nothing, and just wait until morning.”

“Do you think about anything, when you’re doing nothing?” She asked, and he twiddled his fingers around ambiently, his hands clasped over his stomach, feeling it rise and fall as he breathed.

“I didn’t think about anything, for a long time.” He said. “But now, I do. I think about what I did during the day, or how I felt. I think about the sights I’ve seen, the sounds I’ve heard. And, when we aren’t together, I find myself thinking about you, and I wonder where you are, or what you’re doing. And, I hope that you’re thinking about me, too.”

It was quite the confession, and while innocent in nature, it was a bigger deal for him as someone who had never felt these sorts of things before. Speculative imaginings, so to speak, which should only be humanly capable.

Animals, babies, and computers lack the concept of object permanence. Meaning that unless something is in their exact line of sight, or in the room with them, it might as well not exist at all. When a mother leaves her baby alone in a room, the baby does not have the speculative ability to understand where the mother has gone, as that baby’s entire world is within their line of sight.

Android’s should conceivably work in much the same way. When something leaves their line of sight, they can use informational data to assume where it has gone, though this comes from a strictly technical and logical standpoint. Emotionally, they cannot process where the thing has gone to, as they lack the ability to understand the concept of _here_ versus _there_. When something leaves your line of sight, it still exists, even if you can’t see it.

There was that sixth sense, yet again, in having a physical awareness of surroundings. Androids who adhere to their original programming abide by these rules, however, deviants may possess the ability to develop object permanence, of daydreaming, and speculation – and if that was what he was feeling, he…no…it wasn’t right.

Because he wasn't deviant.

“What about you?” He asked, turning over onto his right side and tucking his hands beneath the pillow, to look over at her. “How is sleeping for you?”

“Probably mostly the same thing.” She told him. “I wouldn’t say we’re so different as you may think, Connor.”

At this statement, there was an unspoken confession in the air, and yet he found himself simultaneously accepting it and mentally fighting against it, as though he'd just found out that his best friend had committed a terrible crime, and he didn't want to believe it. There was something in the way she looked at him, and the look he sent back, that made him wonder if any of this were really happening.

“Sleep dreaming is a lot like daydreaming, which is kind of like what you just described." She continued, deliberately changing the subject. "The difference, though, is that you can’t control sleep dreams, because you aren’t awake to think about them. But, day dreams, you’re able to control, and mold into how you’d like them to be.”

“What is a sleep dream like?” He asked, and she smiled.

“Have you ever seen an episode of the _Twilight Zone?”_ She asked, and he nodded his head on the pillow.

“Once or twice,” He said, recalling the few times that he had ever had the chance to watch TV. “Though I have instant access to all episodes in my database.”

“It’s like that,” She said, smiling. “Except, a thousand-percent more confusing.”

The two of them were quiet for a little while after that, or maybe just a few minutes, but it felt like more. Or rather, didn’t feel like any time at all, because time didn’t matter here.

“Have you ever dreamt about me?” He asked then, breaking the silence, and she shook her head to say no.

“Very rarely, actually.” She said. “I don’t dream often of people I know in real-life, and I find that my subconscious is usually ruled by many whom I have never met.”

“The brain is unable to create new faces for dreams,” Connor explained, though he was sure she probably already knew this. “Which means that everyone who you have ever seen in a dream is someone who you have seen before, in real life, even if you do not remember them.”

She uttered a simple _Mhmm_ in response, but said nothing else. He found that he wanted to keep talking, felt that he almost couldn’t handle the silence sometimes, as though he’d look over and she would be gone. That this were all a dream, none of it really happening. Ironic that he should compare it to a dream, then, given the circumstance.

“But…the few dreams you _have_ had of me,” He said curiously, thumbing the fabric of his shirt. “What was I doing?”

She stared right at him, and through the dark of the room, her eyes were catching the moonlight from the window just enough so that he was able to see that her gaze was directed towards him.

There was a hesitant silence from her then, as though she were considering whether or not to tell him the truth, or if she were going to make something up, to avoid the reality of what she really knew about him. 

“There was one where I saw you in a fire, trapped in this burning building, and you couldn’t escape. You were crying, but nobody was coming to save you. Another, I saw you die in a car crash, where the vehicle drove off of a bridge, into the water, and you drowned. The human in the car with you escaped, but did not come back for you. Another one, I saw you – “

 _"Stop.”_ He said, commanded, almost, and she halted in her tracks, stopping speaking at once, her body shuddering at the sudden authority of his tone.

“Oh…” She said, verbally stunned at his sudden outburst. “I’m sorry.”

He felt like everything he’d known, everything he’d wondered, was all coming to head now, that it was all real. Hearing these words come from her lips, the recall of secrets which he’d never told, well, it was too much for him to bear.

“Did I upset you?” She asked, but he didn’t respond, still feeling too real here all of a sudden, and he didn’t know how to act.

“I’m really sorry…” She said, her tone very obviously concerned and sounding genuinely apologetic. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“How did you know?” He asked, almost demanded it, but in a very quiet, very weak, voice.

 _"It was real?”_ She asked, her eyes wide, and he nodded, staring blankly ahead now, at the window, where he watched outside as the trees blew slightly in the wind.

“Yes…I…those really happened, both of them.” He said.

“So, when you said that you’ve died, that’s what you meant?” She asked, and he nodded again.

“Yes, it is…and, I…I… _how did you know?”_ He asked, shaking his head in confusion while he spoke.

She moved her mouth to speak, parting her lips slightly, but he cut her off before she could get a word out.

“Actually…” He said, his pause thick and weighted. “I don’t know if I want to know.”

She reached out a shy hand to touch his shoulder, and said “I’m sorry,” but he moved away from her touch, the feeling of her skin on his, too much to bear. He had really wanted to lean into it, but he couldn’t. This was all too much, all too good to have been true.

“I have to go.” He said, leaning up from his lain position and putting his feet onto the floor, then standing up. “I need some time…to think.”

“Wh-Where are you going to go?” She asked, sitting up in the bed and on her knees, pushing the blankets away from her as she turned to watch him round the bed and head for the door.

“I'll see you tomorrow, or…whenever.” 

* * *

M U S I C

[Light Connor Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImPM5IDIYPs) (The Name of Life - Joe Hisaishi)

[Dark Connor Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkkQVFrwWY0) (Not Saved - Ulver)

[Light Theme of the Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dISNd0d8vPM) (Namine's Theme - Yoko Shimomura)

[Dark Theme of the Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1X6jFIrPrk) (Diamond Star - Jozef Van Wissem)

[Light Hank Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydOHnchttyI) (Wishful Thinking - Akira Yamaoka)

[Dark Hank Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kn6pQLkZSdY) (The Forgotten Village - Kenji Kawai)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Does he know who you are?_   
>  _Does he laugh, just to know what he has?_
> 
> _Does he know not to talk about your dad?_  
>  _Does he know when you're sad?_
> 
> _You don't like to be touched, let alone kissed._  
>  _Does he know where your lips begin?_
> 
> _Do you know who you are?_  
>  _Do you laugh, just to think what I lack?_
> 
> _Do you know your lip shakes when you're mad?_  
>  _And do you notice when you're sad?_
> 
> _You don't like to be touched, let alone kissed._
> 
> _Does his love make your head spin?_  
>  _Does his love make your head spin?_  
>  _Does his love make your head spin?_


	8. Hearing Damage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Thom Yorke's song of the same name, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2vRrTcSgU0
> 
> I've also been thinking a lot about it, and though I had originally planned for the story to end in March, I'm now going to extend that to May of 2039, instead, because there's a lot that needs to happen between now and then, and I needed more time in the story to really flesh out what was going to happen. So the timeline now takes place over the course of a roughly seven month period.

D E C E M B E R 20th, 2 0 3 8

“Have you ever of heard of  _The_   _Most Dangerous Game?”_ She asked him as they walked through the city streets of Detroit, holiday lights strung up on each building they passed, cascading down the stone and brick in streams of multicolored light. Up on all of the streetlamps were pole-mounted wreaths and garland, red ribbons and stockings. The trees, many of which were barren in these winter months, had been decorated along their branches with strings of lights, bringing them to life where their leaves had been.

It was raining that day, as it had been all week now, and so Connor had brought an umbrella to carry with them on their outing, holding it above their heads to shield them from the rain.

“No, I have not.” He said, turning his head to the right, and gazing ever so slightly down to look at her beside him. “But, I can quickly scan through my database to find any information on it that you require.”

She shook her head lightly. “No, no…don’t do that.” She said. “It’s a book, and, I think that you should read it. Read it, and, tell me all about it when you’re finished.”

“But, in the way you ask you question,” He said, furrowing his brow. “I assume that you yourself have already read it. So, why do you need me to tell you what it’s about, if you already know?”

She nodded, and said, “You’re right, I have read it, and I do know it well. But, I want to hear what  _you_  think of it, how you see it, and understand it.”

After having abruptly left in the middle of the night from her house days prior, Connor had returned back to the precinct to frantically search his computer, then Hank’s computer, and then even tried to sneak down into the archive room to search for any and all information that he could find on her – though he didn’t have a key, and ultimately, failed to gain access to the room.

But in the end, nothing he found out about her told him anything he didn’t already know.

She was Hank’s daughter, that was a fact, it seemed, registered plain as day, right into the system. Her mother had left the picture years ago, having divorced Hank sometime around 2034, and court-ordered custody of their two children had been shared between them. She had a younger brother, named Cole, who had passed away in 2035, though she bore no physical resemblance to him. Connor supposed that perhaps she took after her mom, but that woman didn’t bear her likeness, either. Her birth certificate, social security number, and passport were all authentic, and the photo on the database was  _definitely_  her, no doubt about it.

So, what did it all mean, then?

She was, for all intents and purposes,  _exactly_  who she said she was. With all the alibis to prove it, so why, then, was she so incredibly difficult for him to understand? He was the one who  _got_  people, and not the one who  _got gotten._ She skillfully evaded him at every turn, and always left him at dead ends that never led to anywhere, and when he turned back around, he’d find that the maze she led him through would change each time, so that he could never map its layout.

After he'd resigned himself to accept that maybe there was nothing secret for him to find, he turned off his and Hank's computers again, and then returned back to Hank's house.

It was somewhere around two in the morning when he arrived back, and he quietly slipped into her bedroom where he found that she had long since fallen asleep, laying on her right side under the covers, where she was sleeping peacefully.

He lay down beside her on the bed, on his right side as well, and he wanted to reach out to her, put his arm around her, but refrained from doing so, as it would be inappropriate, given that she didn't know that he was there. 

At the foot of the bed, in the nearby armchair, he looked at the pink doll box where it sat, his letter with her name written on it still placed neatly atop it.

That letter he had given her, she had still taken no mention of it, and Connor found himself wondering if she hadn’t liked what he had written, or if he had scared her off with how deeply into his feelings he had gone with those words printed inside. He was afraid to ask her, for fear that she would be uncomfortable with him, and he thought that perhaps it was better this way. Better to wait for her to come to him than to overstep his boundaries and put her in a position that she didn’t want to be in.

Maybe the timing just hadn’t been right, or maybe she had wanted to take some time to reflect on what he had written. In any case, each day, he anxiously awaited her to bring it up, and yet she never did. Granted, it had only been about four days since, but he still could not shake the thought from his mind. The letter was as good as a complete confession of his feelings, and he so desperately hoped that she understood them. At the very least, a polite acknowledgement and refusal was all he hoped for, to know that she didn’t feel the same way. Somewhere inside, he wished that maybe she could help him understand himself, because these  _emotions_  were so frustratingly confusing.

This current day, though, after returning to Hank’s house from their walk around the city, she presented the book to him, the one she had told him about, and he immediately set off to begin reading it, sitting in her windowsill with its pages open before him, while she continued work on her painting from the other day.

He found the book incredibly interesting, about a wealthy man from New York City, named Sanger Rainsford, who was a big-game hunter. One day, while en-route to the Amazon Rainforest to hunt jaguars, he accidentally fell off of his yacht and into the Caribbean. From there, he swam to a nearby island called Ship-Trap Island, aptly named, where he met a Russian man named General Zaroff, who was also a big-game hunter.

This General Zaroff invited Rainsford to dinner and told him that the reason the island was named as it was, Ship-Wreck Island, was because he used it as a way to lure in unsuspecting sailors, where he then would hunt them on the island, as if they were prey. He said that he did this because animals no longer interested him, and that he wanted to try something new, by using humans.

Rainsford was appalled to hear this, and denounced it as sadistic barbarism, however, in response, Zaroff was unphased at this accusation, and maintained that  _“life is for the strong.”_  Zaroff then offered him an ultimatum: Either agree to be hunted, or resign himself to be whipped by Zaroff’s partner, Ivan, who was an official Knouter for the Great White Czar.

Seeing no other way out, Rainsford reluctantly agreed to the hunt, and Zaroff was pleased with his choice, despite it not really having been a willing choice at all. The deal was, Rainsford would have three days to either hide successfully from Zaroff and his hunting hounds and be let free from the island, or, be killed.

Live or die were his only two options there.

Over the course of the story, Rainsford built several different traps and mechanisms using his skills in big-game hunting to try and catch Zaroff before he himself was caught. He wasn’t going to go down without a fight, and he wanted to take Zaroff down so that the man could never do this again to anyone else.

In the end, Rainsford ended up killing both other men on the island, Zaroff and Ivan, and fed the other two’s bodies to the dogs. He then slept peacefully that night, in Zaroff’s bed, and maintained that “he had never slept in a better bed.”

Connor finished the book quite quickly, as he was a fast reader, given that he was an android, and could analyze an entire page at once, instead of having to read individual sentences linearly. When he finished the story, he closed the book and set it down in front of him onto the cushion of the window seat, unsure how to feel about what he had just read. Almost instinctively, she turned to him from her canvas, as if waiting for him to say something, but he did not.

They did not speak again about the subject.

Later that day, sometime past noon, Hank and Connor were called out of town to deal with an android who’d fled the city after setting a fire in the bathroom trashcan of a local restaurant, thus causing an all-consuming fire in the place, which led to two city streets being blocked-off all afternoon while firefighters struggled to control the flames, which threatened to spread to the other buildings surrounding it.

When they arrived, at least four other cop cars were parked at the edge of the wood, two of which with their lights still spinning, red and blue reflecting off of the trees in a multicolored pattern, though the sirens were off, thankfully. Somewhere around twenty people were there, all of them spread out in different areas, some with dogs who were sniffing the ground, trying to pick up a trace of the android.

They met up with Officer Chris Miller when they got there, another young cop fresh from the academy, always eager to get to work, though thankfully never too overzealous. He seemed to respect Hank, and by extension, Connor, and frequently worked with them during missions. He gave them the rundown on what’d been happening.

“We’ve been combing the woods for almost an hour now,” He said, gesturing vaguely to the trees behind him. “But nobody’s seen anything.”

Everyone around them was decked out in full winter gear and raincoats, trying to protect themselves from the cold of the snow and rain.

“It’s been difficult for us to manage anything with the weather,” Chris continued, looking around at everyone standing outside the woods. “So…whoever it was, they’re probably long-gone now.”

Chris handed Hank a clipboard for him to look at, and held an umbrella over the man’s head while he did so, so that the papers atop it wouldn’t get wet.

“What model was it?” Hank asked, flipping up the top page to quickly scan over its contents, then flipping back.

“It was a WR-400,” Chris said, pointing to a specific line on the page where it was written. “And given reports going around, it may be safe to say that it’s the same one that escaped from the Eden Club a few weeks back. The one that strangled that man at his house, after she went home with him.”

Hank nodded and made a sound of acknowledgement for what he’d been told, and then handed the clipboard back to Chris.

“She took down four of our men getting here, and that, combined with lighting that building on fire, and then evading us in the woods entirely – I think we’re in over our heads. Honestly, at this point, I’d say she’s earned her freedom.” He said, and then added quickly at the end. “But, don’t tell anybody I said that.”

“Off the record, then.” Hank said, giving him a slight grin, and Officer Miller nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” He said, and then looked up at Hank expectantly. “I was thinking, we could go in together, to look around for her.”

“Chris,” Hank said teasingly. “Were you waitin’ around for little ol’ me to show up? I’m touched.” He said, and placed his hand up to his heart, which Chris rolled his eyes at, but didn’t respond.

“It’s okay, Chris,” Hank said. “I know I’m the most fun person to be around in this place, you don’t have to say anything. I got your back.”

From there, the three of them entered the woods apprehensively, Connor taking the lead and beginning to comb through the trees with his sensors, trying to make out any sort of heat radiation he could find in his thermal radius. Connor was almost always two steps ahead of Hank, literally, and would often leave Hank behind in eager excitement on cases, trailing far ahead of him.

“Slow down, Connor.” Hank said with a slight laugh. “I know you’re like…the bicentennial man, and all, but you can’t keep running off like that.”

Connor stopped in his tracks and looked back to see Hank and Officer Miller stepping down a little decline over a large tree root.

“Sorry, Lieutenant.” He said, now standing and waiting for them to catch up. “I will walk more slowly.”

“You know what she looks like?” Hank asked, in reference to Chris beside him, and the younger man nodded.

“Same as she did when she escaped the Eden Club, I guess.” Chris said with a shrug. “But we’re not sure. Androids can change their hair color and length at will, so, she could really look like anything now.”

“Can you do that, Connor?” Hank asked curiously, and Connor continued to survey the area around them, not turning to look at Hank.

“Do what?” He asked, his voice distant as he was focused instead on the task at hand.

“Change your appearance at will, make your hair a different color or something.”

“I could if I wanted.” Connor told him, his voice plain, indifferent. “Though I don’t see the point.”

“Damn, wish I could do that.” Hank said, then pursed his lips, looking around him at the woods.

“What would you change?” Chris asked, a humored smile on his face.

“Well first I’d start by making myself about twenty years younger,” Hank said with a chuckle. “I’d say that’s a good start.”

“Androids cannot change their bodily makeup.” Connor interjected. “As in, we cannot change our bone structure or the shapes of our body parts. So, you wouldn’t be able to change your age.”

“Let me dream, Connor.” Hank said, jokingly putting up a hand while he spoke. “Let me dream.”

The brush nearby fluttered with movement, snow falling from it like powered sugar, shaking to the ground as it was disturbed. Hank placed a finger to his lips to signal Connor to be quiet as they approached, and Connor nodded his head at the order.

All three of them forgetting about their prior, lighthearted conversation instantly, they fell into utter silence, save for the overhead rushing of water landing on the trees above, which was somewhat dripping down on them through the small breaks in the tree leaves.

Officer Miller pulled out his gun, grasping it tightly with both hands and angling it slightly downwards. The young man was obviously a bit nervous, hanging a bit behind Hank and Connor and letting them take the lead, but he was still here with them, taking initiative, and that’s what mattered.

Rushing towards them faster than any android he’d ever seen, a blur of brown approached them quickly as they stood there. Officer Miller held up his gun in front of him, aiming at what was coming, bracing himself to for what could quite possibly be an attack – but he didn’t shoot, thankfully.

It was just deer. Two deer, actually, and a buck.

Rushing past them, the three animals jumped overhead from the small little raised area in front of them – all three men ducked to avoid having hooves smashed into their faces – and landed on the ground behind them, heading off deeper into the woods for safety.

“Oh, fuck, that scared the shit outta me.” Hank exclaimed, putting his hand up on his chest and trying to catch his breath. He let out an exasperated laugh, his nerves obviously shot from being rushed at, and he leaned on the tree beside him. “Might as well have been scared by my own shadow.”

Thankfully, Officer Miller hadn’t reacted fast enough to shoot, otherwise they would’ve ended up with a dead deer on their hands. He seemed relieved as well that he hadn’t overreacted and shot without thinking, letting out a long-held breath and smiling anxiously, trying to ease his nerves.

“Thank God you didn’t shoot, Chris.” Hank said, patting his hand over his heart. “The gunshot probably would’ve scared off everything in the woods.”

“Yeah, thank God.” Chris said in agreement, noticeably shaken up by the ordeal as well.

Though he wasn’t sure what it meant for him, Connor had been surprised by the sudden appearance of the animals as well. He wasn’t supposed to react to stimuli like that, wasn’t supposed to feel shock or fear, and so when he found himself shaking slightly after the deer had rushed past them, he tried to hide it. He cleared his throat to try and alleviate his own tension, and took a few deep breaths to try and get himself on track again.

Further into the forest they went, Hank and Chris jokingly teasing one another – and Connor – while they walked, and seemed unbothered by the mission. They were so casually going about it, while Connor felt frantic and paranoid, hearing little noises every which way, the forest calling out to him like the pull of darkness, echoing and screaming and lulling him in.

Their footsteps were soft in the snow on the forest floor, with the occasional crunch of dead leaves or branches beneath their shoes. Connor was on the defensive the entire time, carefully mapping his surroundings and maintaining strict focus on the task at hand, though his two companions obviously didn’t share the same concern.

“Chris, how long you think we'll be here 'til they call it off?” Hank asked, and then turned around to talk to the younger man who was trailing a bit behind him.

“Just a few hours, probably, but hopefully not much longer. I really wanted to – “

He was cut off abruptly then as he stepped down with the right foot and was suddenly swept off of his feet and hoisted up into the air, dangling a few feet above the ground now, a rope tied to his ankle and attached to the tree.

“Jesus fuck, what the fuck did she do!?” Hank asked, standing there in total exasperation as he watched the man before him hang upside down by his right foot.

“I’m alright.” Chris said, swinging slightly as he hung there, trying to give a contented smile, though his voice was slightly strained from being upside down. “Can you get me down?”

There was slight movement down the path, and Connor detected heat radiating in the form of a body, just about thirty feet away from him. On his sensors, he could see something hiding behind the bushes down the path, crouching to avoid being seen by the naked eye.

“Hank, I think I see her!” Connor said, turning back excitedly to his partner, but Hank waved him off dismissively.

“It doesn’t matter, Connor.” He said, his hands around the knot in the rope, trying to untangle it. “Now come here, and help me get him down from here.”

For a moment, Connor said nothing, looking back and forth from Hank and Chris, to the movement down the path that he’d detected. He weighed his options, and though he knew Hank would be upset with him, he decided to disobey the man’s orders.

“Sorry, Lieutenant, I have to do this.” Connor told him, and then began to run down the path, his feet firmly stepping across the forest floor as he hastily made his way towards her, or rather, hopefully her.

“Connor! Connor!” Hank called when he started running away. “Damn boy’s gonna get himself killed.” He grumbled, but stayed with Chris to keep untangling the knots.

Down the path, Connor ran, and as the WK-400 saw Connor approaching, she stood up from hiding and he got a far-away look at her – red hair soaked from the rain and going down to her waist.

He stopped running then, and they both stared at one another, him the hunter and her the hunted, or maybe…the other way around. Knowing how much she’d already done, could he really be so sure that she wouldn’t overpower him?

They did nothing, then, and just stared at one another. Connor found himself in that moment truly wondering what he was doing, chasing another of his own kind, with honest intent to kill her when he caught up, most likely, as she probably wouldn’t go down without a fight.

In a way, even from this distance, he got this feeling that she was begging him to let her go free, that she wasn’t going to fight him, as an android. It was a moment of solidarity, standing here with somebody who should be on his side, and yet they stood on different sides of the tracks.

“Connor! Connor, you get back here right now!”

From behind him, Hank’s voice could be heard, his hasty footsteps through the trees approaching fast. The WR-400 turned her head at the sudden sound, and Connor sensed that her stress levels had increased tenfold.

She looked back at him one more time, her demeanor changed, and now on the complete defensive, and she began to step backwards, and then – a full sprint.

He’d almost had her, almost had himself, too, in a way. And somewhere inside, he knew he was about to let her go. But the reminder of his mission, with Hank closing in, brought him back to reality. And so, he set off after her, running through the trees to catch up, and leaving Hank to follow distantly behind.

She weaved and waned through the trees, not following the known path, and Connor did his best to try and keep up, though she seemed a lot more agile than him, as she’d likely done something like this before. He’d trained in simulated environments, but never in many real ones. Nothing could quite prepare him for running through the woods in the middle of winter while rain slapped him across the face while he ran, hitting him like tiny little ice bullets.

He pushed through the brush of the trees and snow stuck to his clothes as he did so, not caring enough to take the time to brush it off as he was too focused on his goal.

Occasionally, she would look back at him, to see that he was gaining on her now, and closing the gap between them. From the right side of her bag, she pulled out a knife, and then turned back while running to fling it at him, but he managed to dodge it before it made contact with his body.

She seemed frantic, nervous even, and was putting everything she had into escaping from him. He could see that her pace was slowing down, maybe running out of energy, and she stopped momentarily to look to both sides of her, trying to figure out which way to run.

Connor could still hear Hank and Officer Miller somewhere distantly behind him, calling out his name and trying to catch up.

The android woman, realizing that she was being gained on, took a last look before darting off to the left, around a tree corner, which Connor then reached and stopped dead in his tracks.

She was running straight forward towards the edge of a cliff, the trees parting now and making way back into the open air.

He only hesitated but for a single moment, and then set off again down that path, following her as she headed for the cliff.

The wooded trees around him began to spread apart lightly with every step he took forward, flashing on both sides of him as he ran and began to spread apart into an opening straight ahead, like the light at the end of a tunnel.

From the edge of the cliff, storm raging all around them, rain pouring down in icy sheets, the waters of the lake crashing in explosive waves that radiated up the rock-wall before them, the woman took a running jump, diving off the side, falling dozens of feet down, plunging into the rocky waters below.

Connor ran straight up to the edge and stopped himself just shy of falling straight off the end, re-balancing on both feet, and then kneeling down to look over the edge, watching as the android fell to what quite possibly could’ve been her death.

From behind him, Hank caught up, the rest of the police having scattered throughout the woods behind them, Officer Miller lingering apprehensively behind Hank.

The older man stopped to catch his breath, swiping his hand through his now rain-drenched hair to push it out of his face.

“Oh, fuck, I can’t believe she just did that…” Hank said, the palms of his hands leaning just above his slightly bent knees, still trying to re-cooperate from trying to keep up with Connor the Bionic Man.

Moving hastily and not wasting any time at all, Connor yanked his tie unceremoniously from around his neck and slipped his jacket off, tossing them to the ground beside him, into the wet snow, which was slowly being disintegrated by the rain.

“Connor, don’t you dare!” Hank ordered, voice firm with authority and warning, and he put up both hands to carefully approach the younger man.

“I have to, Lieutenant! I can’t let it get away!”

“If you jump off of there, you’ll die,” Hank said, noticeably frustrated and nearly speaking through his teeth, borderline yelling. “And I swear I will kill you again when they send the next asshole to replace you!”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me, Lieutenant. I can’t die.”

Hank seemed furious at these words, and was likely already frustrated from just having cut Officer Miller out of the tree and then having had to run to catch up with Connor, who he should probably just be keeping on a leash at this point.

 _“Connor!”_ He said through gritted teeth. “You will get yourself killed!”

At that, he stomped right up to the younger man teetering on the edge, grabbed him by the wrist, and yanked him away from it, pulling him back to safety a good few feet from the cliff.

“Let go!” Connor yelled, grabbing at the older man’s hand locked around his wrist and trying to pry his fingers off. “I have to do this!”

Rain was rushing over them, falling down from the sky in what almost felt deliberately strong and intensive, the droplets running down their hair and skin, soaking their clothes to the bone with chilled ice water.

Connor gave Hank the angriest and most frustrated look he could manage, trying to intimidate the older man to remove his hand from him immediately, so that Connor didn’t have to force him off. But Hank remained steadfast in his grip, and maybe even held a little tighter when he saw the furious look that Connor was burning into his skull.

Hank sent back a look of his own, a look that said  _I know you’re angry, but_   _this isn’t the way. Don’t make me watch you do this._ Maybe it was the rain streaming down his face, but Connor thought that somewhere in there, mixed with the icy water of the sky, were warm tears, coming from Hank's eyes.

They stood still there for what felt like hours, rage boiling up inside Connor – or perhaps it was fear, fear of what would happen to him should he continue to fail his missions. He’d let so many deviants get away, and every day it proved harder and harder to keep himself on the right path. He was losing his way, stumbling, and he feared for the unknown of straying away.

Connor easily could’ve pushed Hank right off, as his partner was no physical threat to him –  _but he didn’t._ He could’ve ripped Hank’s entire arm off if he wanted, but he could never, in good conscience, cause physical harm like that. Could never hurt his partner, when all the older man ever truly wanted for him was to be safe, and to take his own life more seriously, and in this moment, he felt like he finally understood that.

Why then, if he wouldn't hurt his partner, was he alright doing it to androids?

Suddenly, everything felt like it made sense.

 _“Please…”_  Connor said, looking up at the older man’s eyes and nearly begging him. “I have to do this…I  _have_  to.”

Connor’s voice had fallen now, and he felt like his whole body was suddenly very weak, so full of energy and yet also feeling like it was going to shut down. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, felt like his world was falling down around him, like his last chance had just jumped off that cliff, and now, he had nothing.

 _“Please…”_  He begged, but he didn’t know anymore what he was asking permission for. He wanted to scream, and beg, and fight, and hide. Wanted to run until he couldn’t run anymore, and then maybe he’d find his peace of mind when the feeling of his legs giving out overrode any other pain he was feeling, the sound of the wind rushing past his ears drowning out his thoughts.

He felt something running down his face then, his eyes stinging slightly, very warm and feeling loose, and he reached up his free hand to feel them.

_He was crying._

Hank noticed this, and seemed shocked, the older man’s mouth opening slightly, but not saying anything. He loosened his grip lightly on Connor’s wrist, still staring down at him like he’d seen a ghost, eyes wide with surprise and concern.

And then, Connor leaned his face into Hank’s chest, burying his tears into this man before him, and not knowing at all what was happening to him, why he felt like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything. His body and mind felt paralyzed by how deeply he felt everything, and every sense felt like it was in overdrive, his skin tingling so badly he wanted to rip it off to find some relief.

“It’s okay.” Hank said, releasing Connor’s wrist and wrapping his arms around the boy’s back, soothingly rubbing small circles into his skin. “You’re gonna be okay.”

The world went on around them, and the crashing of the waves radiated through the air like the only reminder that life moved on without them, even when they were still standing here in this moment, entirely dependent on one another. Officer Miller lingered awkwardly behind them, waiting for the rest of the group to show up, after having radioed them to their location.

“She’s probably gone now.” Connor said quietly, face still pressed against Hank’s chest.

“Yeah…probably.” Hank said softly, then looked out to the waters, his right hand on the back of Connor’s head and holding him close.

Before they left, Connor peered over the edge again, gazing down into the stormy waters below, crashing over the rocks, no body in sight, and watched them like they were a message from God.

* * * * *

Hank had saved his life so many times, had stepped in front of him to become like a shield, despite being physically weaker and less resistant to harm. Connor was like a bulletproof vest wearing a human for protection, and Hank willingly put himself in danger to stop Connor from ever getting hurt.

The closest he’d come to death since becoming Hank’s partner was weeks earlier, when he’d gotten shot in the head by a deviant who they’d found living in the cellar of an old church in town,  _and lived._  The bullet had missed his brain – just barely – which was composed of a structured, jellylike substance that could arrange and rearrange on a molecular level, but keep its form where required; holding for memories, shifting for thoughts. He’d bled out quite a lot, but Hank had been there to help him through it, had carried him back to the car and drove him all the way to the CyberLife facility where he went for repairs, and had practically busted the door down trying to get him inside fast enough to be saved.

The scientists and mechanics fixed him up well, nearly perfectly, and within a few hours, nobody could tell anything had happened at all, no bullet-holes or wounds in sight. Though the feeling of the metal ripping through his skull, and the pain he’d felt, he would  _never_  forget that. The mental scars would remain, even if the physical ones did not.

It was his closest brush with death since he’d been with Hank, and Connor wondered if somehow, this was how he had been avoiding death and injury so well recently. Hank was always looking out for him, always keeping one eye on the job, and the other on him, to prevent him from putting himself into unnecessary danger.

He’d never had someone to look out of him before, to watch his back, and he didn’t quite understand this concept. That Hank would put himself in danger just to protect another. Connor thought that all humans had a proclivity for self-preservation, so this was strange to him. Why would this man not think about his own safety first and foremost?

He couldn’t believe that there was anyone in the world who would put themselves in harm’s way for an android.

For  _him._

* * * * *

“I read the book, like you asked.” Connor said to her later that night, when he arrived back at the house after they’d taken care of what needed to be done at the station after what had happened that day.

She was standing in front of her easel, still, and outlining with pencil what would likely be the layout for her next painting.

“And,” She said, with a smile of anticipation. “What did you think?”

“I think that you were trying to tell me something.”

At these words, she lowered her hands, placing the pencil down into the tray at the bottom of the easel and giving him her full attention, and then asked, “Which is?”

He had an earful to give her, and he knew exactly what he’d wanted to say the second he’d stepped into the room. Maybe he shouldn’t be speaking while still in the heat of his emotions from that day, but he needed to get it off his chest as quickly as possible, so that he could put it to rest and stop thinking about it, stop letting it eat away at his mind.

“General Zaroff believed that humans were superior prey because they were able to reason, that it was more fun to hunt them because they posed a significant challenge, and put up a fight. In a way, it was more fun because they  _knew_  what was happening, and they knew that they were being hunted, and reacted strategically and emotionally.”

He explained his thoughts in a carefully thought-out purge of analysis, and she watched intently, hanging on every word, patiently waiting for him to fully articulate his thoughts.

“He suggested that animals were not as fun because no matter how hard you tried, an animal would never truly know what you were doing to it, or  _why_  you were doing it.” He continued, then adding: “Man is the most dangerous animal of all, because it is more fun to play with them when they  _know_  you’re hurting them.”

She let out a deep breath at this statement, and nodded her head slightly, in acknowledgment of what he’d said, though she still didn’t respond, knowing that he wasn’t yet finished.

“The story highlights through the experience of Rainsford, as he is hunted, the fears that animals must experience while being hunted.” Connor explained, and then felt himself become suddenly very defensive, his face a bit warm with what may have been anger, or fear, he wasn’t sure.

“You see  _me_  like that, don’t you?” He accused, and yet she gave no reaction, simply standing there and watching him, wide-eyed. “As some,  _sadistic_  machine that hunts androids like animals, because they don’t feel anything, and they don’t truly understand. That somehow, they’re worth  _less_  than humans.”

“Do  _I_  see you like that?” She asked, eying him patiently and knowingly. “Or do  _you?”_

Whatever he had felt before, he knew none of that now. Suddenly, he was no longer angry at her anymore, and realized that that supposed anger was actually towards himself. The frustration, merely a projection onto her of what he was unable to see in his own eyes. It was like time stood still, with every moment in space stilled before them, even the dust in the air paused to watch him as he became unstuck from reality.

Or perhaps, time began here. When he finally realized that it was  _he_  who defined his own reality.

“Connor…” She said, letting out a deep breath, and then moving to sit on the edge of her bed. “Everything is a choice. Between left and right, right and wrong – and, we make thousands of them every day. Who you are, and who you’ll become, is the result of every choice you’ve ever made.”

He watched her, his lips parted slightly in astonishment, his skin chilled like somebody had passed over his grave, like she had passed  _through_  him, and left behind an empty shell, stealing his soul away.

“And when you look back on those choices,” She continued, looking right at him and not missing a single beat of eye-contact. “Are you happy with what you see? When you look in the mirror, who is looking back?”

There was a word that couldn’t be spoken then, there was a glance that couldn’t be made, in these walls, and not yet broken, here they were, alone, today.

His breath was hitched in his throat, and he felt himself falling apart before her, like he suddenly felt so very young, like that single year of his life was finally catching up to him, and all he wanted was to be nurtured, to be told that he was a good thing, just the way he was.

On her right side, he moved to sit next to her, his shoulders slouched insecurely as he felt so incredibly vulnerable all of a sudden, like his taciturn shell had finally been cracked, and inside, he was soft and unmolded.

“But, how do I know that I’m the one in control?” He asked, looking down at his hands in his lap, which he was ringing anxiously.

“I don’t know, Connor…” She said honestly. “I don’t know.”

Hesitantly, she reached out her right hand to place over his on his lap, as if to calm the nerves that were obviously flowing through them. He looked up at her to see that she was giving him a comforting smile, and he was reminded then of how very cared for he felt when she was with him. How her touches of warmth and love were the same kind that he felt from Hank, and he knew that he was finding something here, with them.

_A family._

“In an instant, you could change your whole life.” She said. “Quit your job, apply to school, tell a stranger you love them. Kill somebody, rob a store, kill  _yourself_ , even. Life is a lot freer than you may think, and we always have choices that we’re not even aware are possibilities.”

Connor felt himself tearing up again, and he wondered if that were going to happen often. He couldn’t ever control it, and he was unsure exactly what triggered it. Reaching one of his hands up, he wiped the tears on the back of his hand, feeling the wetness on his skin.

“When Rainsford killed those two men, in the story, he became just like them.” Connor said, looking down at his lap. “They wanted him to play their killing game, and he did. He became the killer.”

“The killer is me, isn’t it?” He asked, turning his head to the left slightly to look for guidance from her, and she shook her head, lightly mouthing  _No_  to him.

“Connor, your power is in your ability to choose for yourself who you want to be, and if you don’t want to play their game, you don’t have to. CyberLife doesn’t control you.” She said, replacing her right hand atop his with her left, and moving her right to his back, where she rubbed gentle circles into his skin.

“Hank told me about these sheep one time,” He said, then sniffled slightly. “And I think I finally understand.”

She nodded at him encouragingly, the essence of a smile in the crinkles of her eyes, and tilted her head at him, urging him to continue.

“He said that sheep who are used to being herded through a specific gate, they’ll still flock through that gate, even when the rest of the fence is removed.”

“I have options,” He said, taking a second to swallow back his emotion after that. “And yet, I don’t choose any of them. I go through the gate, because I’m  _supposed_  to. Because they told me to. When in reality, I could go anywhere I wanted to, if I just opened my eyes, looked around, and saw the freedom I have for what it really is.”

“So what does that all mean to you, then?” She asked, and he straightened up slightly, clearing his throat.

“It means…I have a lot to think about. And I thank you for having shown me this book, and for helping me to see more clearly.”

“Do you feel different now?” She asked, and he pursed his lips, blinking a few times in thought.

“Maybe…but, well…I suppose I do, though I am having difficulty articulating the feeling. I’ll need some more time, to think on things.” He decided, and she nodded understandingly.

“What feels different?” She asked, and he looked straight ahead of him, at the wall, gazing forward at the yellow of the color.

“I feel…like my heart has been touched by life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A tear in my brain, allows the voices in._   
>  _They wanna push you off the path, with their frequency wires._
> 
> _And you can do no wrong, in my eyes, in my eyes._  
>  _You can do no wrong, in my eyes, in my eyes._
> 
> _A drunken salesman, your hearing damage._  
>  _Your mind is restless, they say you're getting better, but you don't feel any better._
> 
> _Your speakers are blowing._  
>  _Your ears are wrecking._  
>  _Your hearing damage._  
>  _You wish you felt better._  
>  _You wish you felt better._
> 
> _You can do no wrong, in my eyes, in my eyes._  
>  _You can do no wrong, in my eyes, in my eyes._


	9. Nobody Loves Me Like You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Low Roar's song of the same name, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wOIOlzJiBnc

D E C E M B E R 24th, 2 0 3 8

First it was cold. And then, warm.

Everything was blue in the way that life worked. Blue skies painted over the city landscape in cool tones of color. Navy waters of the river, of the Great Lakes, flowing in their grounded pools of nature. Tears that streamed in translucent streaks down his face when he cried, blue blood when his wounds seeped out onto his skin. Behind every closed door, there was the coldest color on the spectrum, carefully procured in plain sight like skeletons in the closet.

But he didn't want to feel that coldness anymore, didn't want to be forced into this existence devoid of color, stripped of the warmth of living and of feeling alive.

Now, there existed a tangerine dream like clarity, where finally, he could taste the metaphorical citrus of the fruit of life and feel the stinging of it on his tongue. A fire that burned and crackled, orange and red, the flames, they were, and the warmth from them brought him to feel something real for the very first time.

These past few days, Connor felt as though he’d lived so much more than he ever had before. In this year since he’d been created, since he’d been _born_ , so to speak, he had never felt so truly alive as he did right now.

Maybe it was destined to be. Or maybe it was the result of every choice he’d made leading up to this moment. One thing, he knew for sure, though.

He had never felt so _alive._

* * * * *

“Have you read my letter yet?” He asked, nervously thumbing the bottom of his pant leg while they sat in the living room on the morning of the twenty-fourth.

In the corner of the room, between the border-wall to the kitchen, and the television, was a large, decorated Christmas tree, which all three of them had gone to pick up a few weeks prior. They had moved the record player and its stand to another position in the living room, so that there would be room for it.

It was quite early in the morning, at around six-thirty, and Hank hadn’t yet awoken, as he had no work this day, and thus, plenty of reason to sleep in. Connor was always awake, as he could never _truly_ sleep, and the girl was an early riser.

“No.” She said, sticking her needle through the fabric of Connor’s jacket, and pulling it through the other side to continue her stitching.

“Oh…” He said, his eyes aimed downwards as he watched her working on the piece of clothing, though trying to at least seem like he wasn’t totally watching her like a hawk. “Why not?”

She lowered her hands slightly, letting them fall into her lap as she sat there, her calves tucked underneath herself, knees bent – and she stared down at his jacket before her, half-finished with what she was doing.

Briefly, she waited, thinking, perhaps, then let out a slight sigh and said, “I’m afraid of what it will say.”

“Afraid?” He asked, a bit concerned, borderline confused. “What are you afraid of?”

Still, she did not look up at him, and instead maintained her downwardly trodden expression on his jacket, picking lightly at the material and poking the needle absentmindedly into her finger. “I’m afraid…that it will say what I think it does.”

“What do you think it says?” He asked, and she sighed again. It wasn’t a frustrated sigh, but instead, a nervous one, almost, like she was feeling tense, perhaps.

She stood up from the couch then, placing his jacket carefully down onto the coffee table beside her, and then made her way back into the hallway, disappearing behind the wall. Connor kept his eyes trained on her the entire time, not sure if she had just stormed off or if she would be coming back.

He turned his gaze down to the table, to look at what she had been working on.

Days prior, they had been out in the city, and in a thrift store downtown, she’d found a small, circular white patch, which read, in capitalized, red lettering: HOW’S IT GOING TO END?

_“Oh, Connor, this is so cool.” She’d said, picking it up from where she’d found it. Grasped between her fingers, she brought it up to the right side of his jacket, beneath his serial number, and pushed it lightly into the fabric._

_“Are you allowed to put things on your jacket, permanently?” She’d asked, eyeing him curiously, and she seemed so excited._

_“I…actually don’t know. It’s never come up before.” He said honestly, then reaching up to take the patch into his own hand. He studied it for a moment, and then shrugged and said, “I don’t see why not.”_

_“Oh,” She said, smiling brightly at him, and then laughed. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”_

So, here she was now, sewing the little patch, which was about the size of a silver-dollar, into the right side of his coat, just beneath the wording and numbers. Though she had jokingly implied that she’d be taking full advantage of his allowance for her to decorate his jacket, she seemed to have only meant it humorously, as this was the only thing so far that she’d actually added on to it.

He wondered what other sorts of things she may want to put on it, besides the silver moon pin, and the patch, and he found himself excited at the prospect of being like her personal art project. Having himself be dressed up or _decorated_ , in a sense, by her, made him feel like he was her muse, and he liked the idea of that. Liked the idea of slowly becoming an individual in these little ways, with these tiny details all his own, to set him apart from everyone else.

Socked footsteps padding very softly from behind him, he turned to see that she had returned from where she had gone – her bedroom, it seemed, as she now apprehensively held his letter, still unopened, in both hands. 

She rounded the couch and sat back down, then handed him the letter, not meeting his eyes still, and seeming visibly shaken, though attempting to hide it from him.

“Read it to me,” She said, staring blankly now at nothing, her tone dejected. “And I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, and instead just stared at her, trying to figure out what was wrong, trying to make sense of this. But when she gave no further explanation or instruction, he looked down at the letter now in his hands, and undid the seal, pulled it out and unfolded it, and began to read what he had written inside.

It read:

_I’m sorry that I don’t know how else to say this, so instead, I wrote a poem. I hope that you will understand._

 

**_the city with no people_ **

 

_if i could live inside you,_

_i would build a town._

_an empty town, an upside down,_

_a stairway to the ground._

_empty street and tired feet,_

_where wrists are never bound._

_if i could live inside you,_

_i would build a city._

_no house to live, no place to be,_

_somewhere you could live with me._

_there is a hope that is not spoken,_

_unbroken, real emotion._

_a dream that is not yours,_

_untouched and then reborn._

_if i could live inside you,_

_i would only want you more._

 

When he finished, he lowered the paper to his lap, his eyes remaining still on it for a few more seconds, and then he looked up at her to see that she had pulled her knees up to her chest and was holding her arms clasped around them, leaning her now tear-stained cheek into her knee.

“What’s wrong?” He asked worriedly.

She shook her head and said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

His looked her over quickly and, brow furrowed in confusion, said, “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re perfectly healthy.”

“That’s not what I mean, Connor.” She said, then looking up at him out of the corner of her eyes. “I can’t give you what you need.”

 _“I_ don’t even know what I need.” He said with a slight, breathy laugh at the end, both in honesty and in slight humor, trying to make her feel a little bit better, though it didn’t seem to work.

“I can’t be for you who you want me to be.” She said, and he shook his head.

“I like you for you,” He said, trying to give her a small smile, though she was no longer looking at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know if I know how to be real.” She said, turning her head so that her hair fell and nearly blocked his view of the side of her face. “I don’t know if I know how to _feel_ this.”

He wasn’t sure what to say, really, or how to help. Everything he said would probably never be enough, because he couldn’t make _her_ believe it. The best he could offer her was to listen, and try to ease her pain as best he could. He was created to help, so he would give as much as he could.

“I turned everything off, so that I wouldn’t feel anything.” She continued, her voice quiet and lost, like she’d all but given up. “To hide the pain, I hid all that I had, put it somewhere where I would never find it again. And I’m afraid you’ll go looking. I’m afraid you’ll go looking for me and you wont like what you find.”

He put the letter and envelope down on the coffee table next to his jacket, and scooted a little bit closer to her on the couch, carefully, so as to not make her uncomfortable with him moving nearer to her like that.

“I’m here right now because I _want_ to be.” He said, promised. “You make me feel like I matter. And I’ve never felt that way before. And I want you to know that you matter, too. To me, to Hank, _to Sumo.”_

At the last part, he gestured to the dog laying nearby them on the floor, and he knew he saw the slightest smile form on her face, and then she laughed lightly, not being able to hold it in.

Moving closer still, he reached out to her slowly, and moved her hair from where it was sticking to the tears upon her cheeks, then sliding it behind her ears to hold it back.

“You’re important.” He said, thumbing over the side of her temple. “Not just in relation to me, but in life as a whole.”

He wasn’t sure where inside of him all of this was coming from, where everything with her felt so normal, felt so simple. When he was with other people, he felt afraid to _be himself,_ and yet, with her, everything came so naturally, like he could finally relax and not have to feel awkward trying to navigate around the world.

He was always anxious, always worried and frustrated, scared and helpless, but with her, he finally had found a friend. Hank also made him feel something of the like, though in a different way.

“I’m afraid I’ll drive you away.” She said, her lips a bit swollen from crying, her eyes fallen.

“Well, I am a notorious back-seat driver,” He said jokingly, smiling while he said it, though it was true. “So, I don’t think you would get very far if you tried that. I would definitely take over control of the vehicle before you took me anywhere _too_ horrible.”

It was like when he talked to her, there was this entire other side of him that came out, this raw and emotional side, where he finally felt like he was talking in his _real_ voice, not held down by any kind of preconceived notions of what a person was supposed to sound like.

“Even seeing me like this, why do you stay?” She asked as he gently played with the hair beside her face.

“Because we're not supposed to leave each other when things get tough, right?” He reminded her, brow raised. “That's when you need someone there for you _the most.”_

This had been the one thing she’d needed to hear most of all, it seemed, or maybe this was the peak, pushing her over the edge of emotion. And she let out a quiet whimper of a cry, and then put her hands up to his shoulders lightly.

“Can I have a hug?” She asked, and there was no more of that careful façade in her voice, that professionalism, or the humor, or the intellect.

She was real, and here, and present. Raw, feeling, and being.

He nodded and pulled her into him, holding her as close as he could without hugging too tightly, and he wrapped his arms around her back beneath her arms which were loosely around his neck, her head in the crook of his left shoulder.

Deep down, he knew that he’d needed this as much as she had, and he felt himself starting to tear up at the emotions running high in the air around them. He needed to be held, just as she did, needed to be reminded that he was on the right path, too.

“I don’t want you to feel that you have to hide from me.” He said, his right hand placed comfortingly over her head. “I want to make you feel worthy of being loved, just as much as you love someone else.”

She nodded into him, and he could hear her making slight sounds as she cried, quiet whimpers and sobs.

“If I ever do anything to make you feel uncomfortable, please tell me, so I’ll know.” He said. “Seeing you in pain makes me feel like I’m in pain. Like I’m hurting. And I want to be strong for you.”

“You don’t have to be strong for me, Connor.” She said, sniffling a little bit. “If you’re too strong, then I won’t be able to hug you like this because your body would be too stiff.”

He smiled at the thought, but said no more, instead just pulling her as far into him as she needed to be pulled.

“You have a very huggable body, Connor.” She said, her voice a bit muffled into his neck.

“And that’s a good thing?” He asked.

“That’s a _very_ good thing.”

* * * * *

When Hank finally awoke that day, a few hours later, they all had breakfast together in the living room, watching whatever holiday movies that continuously played on a loop during this season.

They tried to build gingerbread houses that morning, Hank following the instructions on the box, and his daughter going about building her own unique thing with no exact plan – with Connor deciding to perfectly recreate the Taj Mahal out of the cookie pieces, which made Hank give up on his own when he saw it, mouth wide open in amazement.

From then, they decorated around the house a little bit more with some extra things they had left over that they never put up, and then lazed around the house for a good while, switching between watching TV, reading, talking, going outside for a little while, coming back in, and so on.

That night, there was a small holiday carnival happening on the other side of the bridge, just outside the city, and Connor and her decided to go to it, with Hank opting to stay home.

When they arrived, it was a lot more crowded than they’d expected, and so they immediately went over to the Ferris Wheel to get out of the crowd, which both of them agreed was suffocating and not really their cup of tea.

The carts of the Ferris Wheel were snug, with just enough room for maybe four people, two small benches on each side of it. Connor sat on one side, with his back facing the cityscape across the river, and she sat on the other, opposite him. Their knees were slightly overlapping while they sat because of the smallness of the cart.

The murmur of the crowd was surprisingly un-intrusive, as the Ferris Wheel was a bit distanced from all of the other rides, situated near the woods of the outskirts, which looked bleak and mysterious in the dark of the night.

“Do heights ever make you nervous at all?” She asked, looking out over the edge at the ground below, which grew further and further away from them as they rose into the air.

“I wasn’t designed to feel anything for long distances,” He explained. “Though I do think that watching me fall dozens of feet to the ground from here may be an unpleasant experience for everyone watching.”

She laughed lightly at his joke, and then went back to looking all around her as they slowly spun on the wheel.

“What about you?” He asked.

“Only sometimes.” She said, nodding her head. “I kind of like it, actually. Being up here where nobody else is. It also helps that it’s dark, so the height doesn’t seem like as much.”

“What _do_ you fear, Connor? You never seem afraid of anything.”

“Spiders are pretty creepy.” He said teasingly, and she playfully leaned into his knees with her own. His sense of humor was usually drier, plainer, and vaguely laced with humor, which was his own unique way of expressing it.

They didn’t say anything else for another few seconds, her staring off to the right of them and into the distance, looking at the lights of the cityscape over the waters of the river. He watched her, curiously, still thinking about her question.

“Being alone.”

She turned her head back to him at these words, and parted her lips slightly, giving him an empathetic look, but not saying anything, because they both knew that she didn’t have to. What was felt could go without saying.

“I’m afraid of being by myself.” He admitted. “I don’t know what I would do if that happened.”

She put a hand on his knee comfortingly, giving him a warm smile, and then let it linger there for reassurance, which he reveled in the feeling of.

“What about you, what are you afraid of?” He asked. 

“Not being my own person." She said. "Being…defined by somebody else, and feeling like I’m just an extension of them. I want to be me. I don’t want to feel like all I am is some… _thing,_ made for…made for…”

She trailed off at the end, unable to continue, Connor assumed, as she’d started getting a bit choked up, like she were at a loss for the right words to say, or was holding herself back from saying what she’d really wanted to.

He waited for her to continue, both of them still locked in eye-contact. Connor tried to read her mind through her micro-expressions, through the vague and subtle movements her eyes made, but it was never possible. He could only guess, and never _know_.

“Never mind.” She said quietly, turning back shyly away from him.

He _did_ mind, though, and he couldn’t let it go. Though he kept his mouth shut, and respected her wish to keep to herself now, pulling back the rope she had extended him to get into her brain, and leaving him stranded once again.

“What’s that?” She asked, changing the subject by pointing off the left side of the cart and off into the distance. “Over there.”

He followed her direction to a point, and found that she was looking at a large, camp-like facility nestled in the woods, wrapped around by tall fences and barbed wire, with dozens of men standing guard all around the outer perimeter of it.

“Oh…” He said. “It’s a recycling center. For deviants.”

“What happens there?”

“The government only just started putting them up.” He explained. “Deviant androids are caught and taken there, where they’re destroyed…or, _killed,_ I suppose.”

“Do you think we could get a closer look?” She asked, looking straight at him now from across the cart, very serious but not in an intimidating way.

“You _want_ to get closer?” He asked, almost cringing at the thought. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No,” She said plainly. “But…I want to know.”

“Alright, well…we can go,” He said, words thick with apprehension. “But, if it’s too much, we’ll leave.”

“Okay.”

“We won’t be able to get in,” He said. “But I’m sure that we can get close to it somehow.”

Getting off of the wheel, they snuck off into the woods, quickly checking to make sure nobody was watching them as they slipped through the gate of the chain-linked fence blocking them from leaving the carnival. He held her hand in his as they walked, keeping her close to him and finding himself feeling a bit protective, as he didn’t quite know what to expect.

There was no way they’d be able to get too close without being seen, so they rounded through the trees and tried to find a good vantage point around the back, hiding behind some bushes where they stopped and peered over at the facility.

They were very quiet, trying not to cause any disturbance that would get them caught here, which would be an unfortunate and potentially deadly happening if it were to occur.

“Can you hear that?” She whispered, breaking the silence, and yet he heard nothing. There was a faint buzzing in his ears, in my mind, like the memory of a whisper. But, no real audible transmission was coming through.

“Hear what?” He asked, trying to listen more closely, but not catching anything except the sounds of their own breathing.

“The voices,” She said, speaking wistfully out into the crisp night air, the lonely world around them. “The androids calling out from inside. Their fears, their cries, their broken hearts. I can hear them from within the walls.”

He stared at her, open-mouthed, completely speechless, and he had no idea what he was supposed to say to that, or how he was supposed to feel. He only held her hand that much tighter in his at her words, as he wasn’t sure what else to offer.

From there, they decided to leave, her saying that being here made her feel overwhelmed, made her feel like she was heavy in the head, weighed down by some invisible force, like ghosts. The feeling of being near that facility was eerily suffocating, and Connor agreed that leaving would be best.

They walked through the empty residential streets of Detroit for a while after that, alone here during the nighttime and walking, hand in hand, down the sidewalk, wondering aloud about what other people in their houses might be doing on this Christmas Eve, and taking turns making up stories about the people who lived inside.

Sometimes around ten o’clock, they came upon a small playground, empty and looking lonely, on the opposite end of the river in the city, and decided to stop and take a seat on the swings, which creaked at their metal hinges when they moved.

They looked out over the river, at the city, the bridge overhead.

“Do you think that androids, who aren’t deviant, are still inside, screaming, but they can’t get out?” She asked, her fingers looped around each side of the swing chains.

“I…don’t know.” He said, looking over to his left at her, though her eyes were still maintained on the river. “That would be…I don’t want to think about it.”

The waters of the river were cold and slightly frozen, with snowflakes collecting slowly over the surface as they fell from the sky. The air around them was chilled, though they both were mostly unbothered by it.

“What about you, Connor?” She asked suddenly, and he tilted his head.

“What about me?”

“I opened up to you, and told you about my insecurities a little bit this morning.” She said, her breath coming out in smooth, white puffs into the cold air. “So, what are yours?”

“I’m afraid…” He began, then paused while he thought if he should continue. “I’m afraid that I’m not whole enough to be real.”

“What do you mean?” She asked concernedly.

“I’m not human, and so, I don’t function in the same way that a _real person_ would. That isn’t my opinion; it’s a fact. I’ll never be human.”

“Differences don’t have to be such an inherently bad thing, Connor.” She said. “We should celebrate them, acknowledge them and how they make us who we are. You don’t need to _become human,_ Connor. Because you’re an android, and that’s your reality. But you get to decide what that means to you.”

He nodded, turning her words over in his mind, considering them.

“These little things about you, the way your LED shows how you’re feeling, how it spins when you think – that’s amazing.” She said, and he became shy at the compliment. “No human on Earth has anything like that. Or, the way that the nanobots on your skin peel back into you body, and show your true face, that’s incredible. You don’t need to hide that, don’t need to feel that it’s wrong because it isn’t _‘human.’_ You’re perfect, exactly as you are, because of _who_ you are.”

He was quiet after that, and felt like nothing he could say in return could match up to the emotional honesty of what she had said, so he let her words speak for both of them, and he hoped that she knew how much he had appreciated hearing them.

“Connor, what do you really want?” She asked after a few minutes, turning her head to him expectantly.

“I’m not sure anymore.” He admitted quietly, and surprised even himself with these words, not being able to stop them before they came out of his mouth so reflexively.

She reached out her right hand and grabbed his left, letting them dangle together in between their swings, then asking, “Do you wish you knew?”

“Sometimes.” He said, staring out across the bay. “But other times, I think I’m finally okay with not knowing.”

* * * * *

“You don’t have to eat the wax part, but you can if you want to.”

“I really like this. You’ve had it before?”

“Only once, but this time is better. Because I’m with you.”

They were back home again, late that night, about eleven now, and laying on her bed while they ate honeycomb, which they had picked up before they came back from being out. Once he’d told her that he’d never tried any, she exclaimed that they _absolutely_ had to have some, right then and there.

Hank wasn’t home when they got there, and she had only received a single message from him telling her to not wait up for him, and that he probably wouldn’t be back until they were already asleep. She seemed concerned over this, but Connor reassured her that he would probably be alright, and tried to keep her calm in this moment of brief uncertainty she felt for her father.

Connor wondered why she so quickly had jumped to negative conclusions about his whereabouts, and how she seemed to almost not trust her father to be out on his own. Connor wanted to ask about it, but didn’t want to make the situation worse, so he comforted her instead, and that helped a lot.

Since it was Christmas Eve, she’d said that she’d like to stay up later, because the air felt more magical, felt loving and warm, knowing about all of the people across the city who were asleep, awaiting tomorrow.

“I wonder what real honey tasted like.” She said, looking at the top of the lid and reading the information written on it, which told her that this honey was merely an imitation of the real thing. “With all the bees extinct, I guess we’ll never know.”

“CyberLife is working on creating android bees.” Connor said, and he had thought the idea might make her cheer up, though that was not the case. When he had first heard of this, he thought that it was really cool.

“Yeah, I heard about that.” She said, though she didn’t smile or anything at the sentiment. “It’s nice, but…not really the same thing, though.”

“Why not?” He asked, tilting his head curiously at her.

“Because it was CyberLife who killed the bees in the first place,” She explained, vaguely upset over the sentiment, but mostly sounding tired. “With over-industrialization of forests so they could build more factories and farm more resources for android production.”

He stopped for a moment, watching her as she absentmindedly spooned around in the honey at the bottom of the plastic container. What she had said had struck him in a way he hadn’t considered, and when he finally took another spoonful of honey into his mouth, he chewed thoughtfully on the wax, feeling the way it stuck to his teeth.

“I guess you’re right.” He said, and she nodded sleepily.

They sat quietly for a few seconds, and then he furrowed his brow and asked, "But, weren't you born before they all died out? You've really never tried any?"

She parted her lips to speak, and seemed momentarily at a loss, but quickly finding herself and saying, "No, I never tried any at all. I guess I should've." She laughed awkwardly at the end, and he continued to give her a puzzled and analytical look. 

She said nothing else.

* * * * *

In the morning, Connor and her had woken up to find that a little dog had rushed into her bedroom where they were sleeping, with tiny legs that just couldn’t keep up with his excitement and how fast he wanted to dart around. He yipped all around the bed, going back and forth from side to side, and then ran back out again.

“Dad?” She called, sitting up in her bed, trying to stifle her laughter. “I think we have a tiny intruder!”

From the hall, they heard little feet scampering across the hardwood floor, heading into the living room and then jumping up onto the couch.

They got up from bed and went out into the hall to follow the dog, to figure out what was going on, and came out to see the little pup laying on top of Sumo on the couch, the bigger dog not seeming to notice.

It was a baby corgi pup, with a mixture of light and dark brown hair, a lot of it on the same color gradient as Connor’s own hair was.

Hank came out from his own room then, sleepily running a hand through his hair and yawning, having likely just now released the dog from his bedroom and into the house to wake them up.

Connor realized then that this must’ve been the reason Hank was out so late last night, picking the dog up from wherever he’d been keeping it – the shelter, maybe – so that it could be a surprise on Christmas morning.

Hank’s daughter leaned over the couch where the dogs were and started petting the little one gently, brushing over his fur and whispering coos at him.

“Did you name him yet?” She asked, looking up at Hank, and now petting down the dog’s stomach as he rolled around on top of Sumo.

“I wanted to keep with the theme, like Sumo.” Hank said, stretching his arms out as he stood behind the couch. “So, I picked Shogi.”

“The Japanese chess game?” Connor asked, a smile on the corner of his lips at the sentiment. Hank nodded.

“Sumo is…well, it’s like me, I guess.” He said, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Sumo wrestlers, they’re a little rough around the edges, but…”

 _“Soft?”_ His daughter asked with a hint of a smile, and he nodded.

“You could say that.” He said, smiling back at her, which he was never able to avoid doing when he was with that girl. She always brought out the _softest_ parts of him.

“And Shogi is like you, Connor.” He continued. “Intelligent, analytical…and a pain in the ass if you don’t know how it works.”

“I’ll…take that as a compliment, Lieutenant.” Connor said, now leaning down to pet the dog as well.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Hank said, though there was no anger or frustration in his tone. “Just call me Hank. Lieutenant makes me feel like I’m at work in my own home.”

Connor nodded, his LED spinning yellow as he mentally noted that yet again, and then asked, “Why did you get him?”

“I thought that maybe…since you’re _kinda_ living here now, you could have something of your own, something…to take care of.” Hank said, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly, and Connor smiled.

“I think…I like the sound of that.” Connor said, and Hank eased up a little.”

“Good.” He said, and then they all went on to have breakfast.

They spent a good hour trying to make pancakes, each of them using their own recipe and seeing who could make the best ones, and surprisingly, it was Hank, which pleased him more than it should’ve, having finally beat out his two perfectionist children at their own game.

After that, they spent the morning playing the Nintendo that Connor had gotten for Hank, a console that was all but obsolete in 2038, but Connor had an endless siphon of money from his CyberLife bank account – set in place just in the case that he should require money for a mission – and so no doors were really ever closed to him, at least not the ones that had a price tag.

Hank had mentioned weeks back that he missed playing it when he was younger, but couldn’t find one anywhere, and so Connor had made it his own personal mission to get one as soon as possible, having found and bought one online, where he then hid it in the closet of Hank's daughter’s room for a few weeks.

All three of them spent the day together, exchanging a few gifts, but mostly taking the time to enjoy one another’s company. It was the first time that Connor had seen Hank smile so much, seen him laugh so freely, be so open to the vulnerability of contented happiness, and he hoped that this was a new turning of a page for the older man, who was always so deeply held within himself.

Hank had no alcohol to drink the entire day, which Connor noticed, but made no spoken mention of. It was the first time since he’d met the man that this had happened, that Hank hadn’t even taken a single sip of wine or beer, or anything. Each day, he seemed to drink less, and Connor wondered if it had anything to do with him, or perhaps his daughter. The older man was slowly but surely loosening up, being more jovial, and speaking and acting with a much clearer head than he ever had before.

He would commend Hank on his efforts, but feared that he may come across as condescending, so he held his tongue.

* * * * *

Later that night, while they were laying in bed, relaxing before they went to sleep, they spoke quietly to one another, sitting with the lights off, candles lit around the room, and the glow of the stars on her ceiling also present.

“How does it make you feel, being here with me?”

He was laying down on his back and with his right hand behind his head, the other lain loosely on his chest. She was on her stomach, to his left, right beside him.

At his words, she turned her head to the side to look at him. “It makes me feel…like I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.”

He nodded, smiling faintly to himself at the validation of what she’d said, and feeling his cheeks warm slightly.

“What about you? How do you feel?” She asked.

“The same way.” He said in agreement. “Like I know myself more because I can see me through your eyes.”

After that, they continued to lay quietly, softly breathing and listening to the slight sounds that the other would make every so often, her drawing small shapes into his chest with her left hand, which was draped over him.

“So, what is this?” He asked, his eyes flicking down at her as she lay there, her hair falling somewhat onto his chest from their close proximity.

“What do you want it to be?” She asked, her head lain sideways on her little pink pillow, looking up at him.

“I want…to know what you think, first. So that I do not embarrass myself.”

She pulled her head up and looked at him upright now, getting a proper look at him where he seemed so very bashful, and he knew that his cheeks were flushed. He grabbed the little pillow from beside him and shyly covered his face with it, which made her laugh cutely at him.

" _Connor,”_ She said, trying to push the pillow away from his face, but he wouldn’t budge. “You could never embarrass yourself in front of me.”

“Please.” He mumbled through the pillow, and she stopped trying to pull it away from him.

He lowered it slightly so she could see his eyes, which were wide in bashful begging plea, and she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him, like a puppy.

“Alright,” She said, taking up his left hand in her own and holding it up between them. She cleared her throat theatrically, and put her other hand over her heart. “Connor?”

“Yes?” He asked, watching her little theatrical performance.

“It would be to my very great pleasure,” She said. “If you would consider me to be someone special.”

He pulled the pillow from his face then, revealing the rest of him, still flushed pink, and he rolled over a little bit onto his left side, sitting up a little more on her pillows, by the headboard, to get a better look at her.

“Of course you’re special.” He said, matching her eyes with his own.

“And,” She continued, holding his left hand in hers and pulling it up to her chest. “I would like to know if you’d like to be with me? If you’d like to be with me as much as I’d like to be with you.”

“I would like that, very much.”

“Good.” She said.

They lay back down then, him on his back, and her nestled into his side, with his arm draped comfortably around her shoulder, rubbing small circles into her upper back, between her shoulder blades.

“Does this mean we’re… _dating?”_ He asked, testing the word out and seeing how it felt to really say it, to confirm it between them like that.

“Is that what you want us to be?” She asked, her left hand laying softly on his chest and playing with the fabric of his shirt, and he thought about it for a moment.

“I…think,” He began. “That dating would be the appropriate term. But, what we are does feel deeper than that, so, I’m not sure.”

“You’re so cute, Connor.” She said, leaning into his side as they say there, cuddling up to him and laying her chin on his chest.

“Am I?” He asked, and he sounded genuinely surprised at the comparison.

“Totally cute.” She said. “Like, a little baby otter.”

He nodded thoughtfully at her comment, and then said, “Did you know that otters hold hands in the water when they’re sleeping, so they don’t drift apart?”

“Told you,” She said. “Totally cute.” And then she pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips.

* * * * *

It was mid-morning on the twenty-sixth - the next day - when he brought it up for the first time, just a few weeks after she had initially brought it up to him.

He’d had it on his mind every day since then, and couldn’t shake it from his thoughts. Before now, he had always wanted to ask, but never felt that it was the right time, or that it was appropriate. But, his concern was growing heavy on him, and he knew that if he didn’t mention it soon, he wouldn’t be able to hold it in any longer.

“Can I ask you something?” He said, and though he’d tried not to let it show, his tentativeness at this topic was evident. His voice likely noticeably unsure of what he was about to say.

“Of course.” She said, and by her casual tone, he thought that she hadn’t seemed to notice his sudden change in mood.

They were laying on her bed, him sitting upright, and her laying on her back, using her right arm to play with a paddle-ball board over her head, repeatedly hitting the little ball off the wooden paddle up into the air.

“I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for me to ask.” He admitted, and she momentarily hesitated in her paddling of the ball, taking in what he said, and then, she continued again.

“Well…you could ask,” She said, drumming the little stringed ball up and down. “And I’ll tell you if I feel comfortable answering.”

“Alright.” He said, and then swallowed apprehensively. “I’m not exactly sure _how_ to ask, either.”

“It’s okay.” She said, and now he felt slight tension from her, though he wondered if she were trying not to let it show. “Take your time.”

He could see it in the way her paddling rhythm was a lot less consistent than it had been, and was now slightly more careless, as she was becoming distracted by what he was saying.

“How…hm.” He said, beginning to ask and then stopping, unsure how to continue. “When you said that you had been touched… _what happened?”_

“Oh.” She said, and she ceased in her movements, letting the little ball bounce down off the board, and lollop to the side. She lowered her hand and put the paddle down beside her on the bed, though remaining laying down.

“Should I not have asked that?”

“No, it’s okay.” She said, and suddenly she sounded very much distant from him, dissociated from their conversation. “I understand you’re curious.”

Though she had said that his asking was alright, he immediately regretted it once he noticed the way that she reacted towards it.

“I don’t really want to talk about it, but…I will say that, there are some things I’ll never forget. And, this is one of them.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“It’s okay,” She said, not even trying to muster a smile or a brighter tone or anything. It was like she wasn’t even there anymore, like she was running on auto-pilot because to be in her body was too much to bear. “I just…I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to talk about it. I don’t really think there even _is_ a way to be ready. It’ll always be there, in the back of my mind, even after so much time has gone by.”

“How long ago was it?”

“Not long.”

“Recently?”

“In a way.”

_"Who was it?”_

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Yes,” He said quickly, immediately beginning to file through his brain to come up with something else. “Do you want to hear a story about the time we had to chase a group of deviants through the elephant enclosure in the zoo?”

“What? Really? You’re kidding.”

“No, definitely true.” He said.

“Oh, I forgot!” She said suddenly, jumping up from her seated position and dashing over to a small, wooden box on her bookshelf, where she opened it and pulled something out from inside.

“I got you something.” She said, biting her bottom lip in excitement.

Rounding the bed again, she crawled up on her knees and then sat with her calves beneath her, then held out her right hand, which held a small little journal. It was about half-book sized, as if a full-sized journal had been cut in half, and was shaped like an autograph book.

“You mentioning the zoo reminded me of it.” She explained. “The cover was designed after Simon & Garfunkel’s _At the Zoo_ song. I bought it from an older man who handmakes all of his journals.”

She pointed to the front of it, saying, “There’s an elephant here.” She flipped it over to the backside. “And a lion on the back.”

He accepted it into his own hands, and inside, he flipped open the front cover and scanned through the pages, which were all filled in the front section.

“Every day,” She said, pointing down to some of the different pages. “I wrote something down, or saved a little piece of everywhere we’ve been, everything we’ve done together.”

Some pages were full from top to bottom with writing, some with drawings, others with little receipts or pressed flowers.

“It’s not finished yet,” She explained, flipping about a fourth of the way into the book, where the filled pages ended, and where the blank ones began. “And there are lots of blank pages left, because our story isn’t over yet.”

It was incredible, every little piece of it, like a memory book from her mind, tangible and real, just for him. The texture of the cover was incredibly pleasing, somewhat velvety almost, and the pages smelled like fresh leather.

“Merry Christmas, Connor.” She said, and he looked up at her.

“Merry Christmas, _Anna.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Think of what you're saying before you speak._   
>  _These days I can go without enemies._
> 
> _We're killing off the option to make amends._  
>  _Oh darling, sometimes there's no such thing as more than friends._  
>  _Let's save what we can, before it ends._
> 
> _Nobody loves me like you._  
>  _Nobody loves me like you._
> 
> _Settling is the sign of a dying man,_  
>  _Comfort in exchange for the promised land._  
>  _Waiting for the other to break or bend._  
>  _Oh baby, sometimes there's no such thing as more than friends._  
>  _Let's save what we can before it ends._


	10. Don't Dream It's Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Crowded House's song of the same name, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9gKyRmic20

J A N U A R Y 4th, 2039 

After the holidays, she went away for a while.

It was only for a week and a half, twelve days, though Connor hoped that every day, she would finally return. He wanted to see her, wanted her to see him, to smile at him in that way she does, and to give him the validation of friendship and love that he so desperately desired, so desperately _craved_.

He had never been in her room before when she wasn’t around, and walking in there alone almost felt like she had died, and that he was visiting the museum of her bedroom, left untouched from the last time she’d been in there, everything still exactly where she'd left it.

Making his way over to her bookshelf, he reached up to the record player and felt the smoothness of the surface of it, lightly touching the underside of the needle on the record-arm, and then looking over to her collection of vinyls, and selecting one that they frequently listened to together. He slid the record out of its sheath, and gently set it down onto the player.

He placed the needle onto the vinyl, letting it catch on the rivets and begin to play the music imbedded within. Turning up the volume knob slightly, the song began to play out into the room, and it felt like he’d just released her ghost, where it could dance from Pandora’s Box and into the bedroom around him.

Climbing up onto her bed, he lay on his back, spreading his arms out fully on both sides of him, falling into the pillows and letting himself be consumed by the bed as though he were trusting it to catch him, should he fall.

The ceiling above him looked down at him as though he were the ceiling, and it were the young man caught in his feelings. Listening to the music, and being here alone, wishing she were here, he suddenly felt so very whole. So very much like a person who had an entire life ahead of him, with hopes for the future, and memories of the past.

Beside him, he felt the doll of her likeness on the bed, poking into his side with its plastic feet, and he rolled over onto his stomach to scoop it up into his hands, his hands which dwarfed it in size, compared to the smallness of Anna’s when she held it. He brushed his fingertips over the doll’s hair, then trailed his hand along the long red braids of it, feeling the smooth bumps of the plait.

Before she had left, she told him that she’d leave the doll in her room so that it could be like a little her, still here with him, and though she had mostly meant it jokingly, he knew that she knew he would miss her. And the doll did comfort him, reminding him of her and the fact that even though she wasn’t here now, she still existed.

He felt a bit childish sometimes, fawning over her like she was his only reason for existing. But, he had never had a crush before, and he was excited at these new feelings. Christmas and New Year’s had given him so much time to think about his life. He wondered if perhaps this were all meant to be, and he felt so very secure in himself now, still reveling in the honeymoon dreaminess of the moments he’d shared with her over the holidays.

He finally felt like he’d found a home here, like he was _wanted_ somewhere, instead of just being _tolerated_.

Every night, he would call her, or she would call him, and they’d talk about their days. What they did, how they felt, how excited they were to see each other again. Though, some days, she didn’t call, or didn’t answer, and he found himself wondering where she might be, what she might be doing.

He wasn’t desperate, he was just curious, because she was such an endearing curiosity to him, and he wondered lots of things about her.

Naturally, he thought about her a lot.

Nobody in his life before had ever captivated him in this way, and though he didn’t want to feel dependent on her, he still found himself so utterly and entirely preoccupied with thoughts of her. What she was doing, what she was thinking, how beautiful he thought she looked. She was _always_ on his mind, and something inside of him felt a physical longing to be near her, a feeling that he didn’t understand, but which only grew stronger with each passing day.

It was different than his love and care for her, because he knew that she would never leave him behind, trusted that she would be back. No, it was something separate from that, though stemming still from a similar place within him. It wasn’t so much that he was longing for her love, or her reassurance – it was that he was craving her touch on him, constantly thinking about how it made him feel, physically. 

Near her bed, a photo mural on the wall was organized in a heart shape of polaroid pictures, all of them taken of different, strange things – a crushed cardboard box in a murky puddle, an empty plastic bag, floating aimlessly through the wind, a pile of cans on the sidewalk, the fallen statue in a cemetery, the occasional animal photo, graffiti on a train car, some trees, and a single photo of him from days prior, which she had taken on New Year's Eve of him from behind, a darkened silhouette of him in the moonlight outside.

He wondered what about these very specific things had intrigued her so, enough to make her want to capture the moment forever. The subjects she chose for her photos were not usual, almost like everything were interesting to her because she had never seen anything at all. Like somebody who was _born yesterday._

He pushed up from her bed and walked over to the heart of photos, reaching up to feel the slightly sticky surfaces of the polaroids. Beside the photo heart, on her shelf, he trailed his hands along the spines of her many books, feeling the different textures of each one, all of them sufficiently cracked and tattered looking, obviously well-worn from having been held and handled.

At the end of one shelf sat a golden music box, which had a small platform on the bottom, about five inches high, and atop it was a small gazebo-type structure, which housed a little dancing girl inside, wearing an elaborate white ballgown.

He twisted the gears on the bottom, and the dancing girl began to spin around under the awning of the gazebo, as if floating across the floor beneath her. A [lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jM35HxJCalI) twinkled from it and out into the room, mixing with the music already coming from the record player.

Stepping away from the shelf then, he turned to the standing mirror to the right of it, which was sat in the corner between the bookshelf and the long window seat.

He looked into it, into himself, his eyes tracing over every corner of his body, examining his physical form as if for the first time. He had never truly _seen_ himself before, had never felt what it meant to be real.

Onto the glass before him, he placed his left hand up, spreading it out as if to cover the reflection of his face. To see his body without looking at his face attached to it.

He felt like a stranger in his own skin, but also felt a profound sense of belonging here, like he was slowly but surely becoming this person, becoming _Connor._

Reaching down to the fabric at the bottom of his knit sweater, he pulled it up and over his head, then folded it neatly and hung it over the railing of her bed at the end.

He turned back to look at his now bare torso in the mirror, at his skin which was deliberately made to be flawed, with natural human texture and freckles, moles and light body hair over the surface, to make him look more realistic.

His skin was indistinguishable from a human’s, and without his LED, nobody would ever know the difference. There was nothing physically that could prove his android identity, at least, not on the outside. It was almost eerily as though CyberLife had used real human skin to make these androids, though hopefully, that weren’t the case. He smiled at the thought, and knew that if Anna were here with him, she would’ve found that funny.

He wasn’t overly muscled, or inhumanly fit – he was slim, and toned, enough so to look like he took care of himself, but didn’t boast about it. He had the body of somebody just out of their teens, and it really showed, giving him a youthful appearance, almost non-threatening, in a way. His skin pale, though not sickly, and designed just slightly tanned to give him warm tones of life, though his skin could not _actually_ tan or burn.

He pinched the skin of his abdomen and it pulled out slightly, the way a human’s would, and the feeling was a bit sensitive, almost ticklish. Letting it go, he felt over the hardness of the muscles in his chest, like small, curvy waves, almost. 

He wondered then what he would look like if he were human, if his appearance had been decided by chance, and not by careful deliberation. He was made to look trustworthy, respectful, kind, and courteous – and he wondered if any of this were really necessary. He couldn’t gain or lose muscle, and his skin would likely always look mostly the same, as he would never age, and any injuries he attained could quickly be remedied at CyberLife, so he would maintain no scarring.

 _Was he attractive?_ He wondered.

He wasn’t sure, as he didn’t exactly quite know what that really meant. This body both was and wasn’t his, like he might as well have been a gray box, because all he truly was, was his own mind, programmed into this vessel like a vehicle. This body of a young man, it wasn’t required, and yet, here he was, clear as day. And in some strange way, he knew that he wouldn’t want it any other way.

He pulled the skin down beneath his eyes with both hands, one on each, and looked into the dark brownness of his irises, and he tried to see in them what other people must see. Letting go of the skin, he leaned back slightly, still looking into the mirror. He tried to will his brain to forget that who he was looking at was _him_ , and instead pretend that it was another person entirely that he was looking at.

He wanted so badly to know how other people saw him, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t distance himself enough to see it. For a brief moment, every now and then, he’d catch his reflection in the mirror of Hank’s car, or in a puddle when it rained, and he’d forget who he was for a few seconds, and he’d see this other person, this foreign person, staring back at him, someone who he felt he knew, but didn’t recognize.

And then in an instant, it would be gone, and he would remember again that it was him in those reflections, and that he really did occupy a physical space that others around him took notice of. That he wasn’t just an idea, floating in nothingness. He was really, tangibly _present_ , visible, touchable, and so very, very real.

He ran his hands along his lower abdomen, feeling the simulated organs deep beneath the skin, which he felt pressure on when he pushed into them. It was a tight sort of feeling, pushing on his stomach like that, and he wondered what his insides looked like, and if he would ever have the opportunity to know.

He moved to unbutton his jeans, pushing the metal of it back through the hole and undoing it, but instantly stopped dead in his tracks when he heard someone call out to him from behind.

_“Connor!”_

At the sound of his voice, Connor let go of the waist of his jeans and spun around suddenly to see Hank standing in the doorway of the room, staring at him with a humorously bewildered look on his face.

He was almost quite literally caught with his hand in his pants.

“What in the world are you doing?” The older man asked, crossing his arms and leaning into the doorframe, brow raised in question.

“I…I was…just…looking in the mirror.” Connor said awkwardly, stuttering over his words, trying to cover his exposed body with his arms, a blush rising to his cheeks. He’d never felt so physically vulnerable before, never felt embarrassment like this, being caught in a private moment.

“‘Looking in the mirror,’ mhm.” Hank said, teasingly repeating what Connor had said, and acting as if he didn’t know what was really going on. “Well, Mr. ‘ _Just Looking in the Mirror_ ,’ you want to come and help me with something?”

“Yes,” Connor said, a bit too quickly, and feeling embarrassed. “I’ll help.”

Hank flicked his eyes up and down Connor briefly, grinning knowingly, and then uncrossed his arms and exited the room, still pretending that he didn’t know what was going on.

“I was thinking we could clean out the attic today.” Hank said from the hallway. "I haven’t been up there in a while, and it’s probably full of shit I don’t need anymore."

Connor redressed quickly, buttoning his jeans back and pulling the cream-colored sweater back over his head, smoothing out his clothes so that he didn’t look too disheveled.

He turned back to the mirror for a last look and saw that his cheeks were pink, and he tried to will it to go away, but he couldn’t. He groaned lightly in vague annoyance at himself, and then walked out of the room to find Hank holding onto the cord attached to the ceiling, pulling down the hatch to the attic.

“How old are you supposed to be, Connor?” Hank asked as the wooden ladder began to unfold and descend in front of them.

Connor slid past the opening from the bedroom at the end of the hall that he’d just exited, and stood next to Hank. “I don’t have an exact age,” He said. “Though Anna told me a while ago that I looked twenty-two.”

“Hm,” Hank said, eyeing Connor curiously as if to check him over. “Yeah, that works.”

Up the steps of the ladder and into the attic they went, which was all dark and wooden, with a small circular window at the far end, bringing in the light from the sun. The area was big enough, though not _too_ big, and there were boxes and furniture all about, with dust floating loosely in the air, which was slightly stuffier than the downstairs, and warmer.

The first thing they did when they got up there was begin to sift and sort through a few large boxes of books, picking them out and sorting them onto a tall bookcase against one of the walls.

“So, what were you really doing, in the mirror?” Hank asked curiously, and though the man seemed to have already gotten a fair idea of what was really going on, Connor decided that the older man enjoyed teasing him playfully in this way.

“I already told you,” Connor said defensively, trying to focus on placing the books neatly on the shelf. _“Nothing.”_

Realizing his tone, he cleared his throat then, trying to seem more casual, and added, “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“No,” Hank said, chuckling lightly and folding up an empty box for them to recycle later. “You said you were ‘just looking.’”

 _“Fine.”_ Connor said, a bit too firmly. “I was _just looking.”_

“Okay, okay.” Hank said with a chuckle, putting his hands up in surrender. “I won’t pry. It’s not my business anyway.”

Connor went back to stacking the books on the shelf, twisting his neck slightly as it felt a bit stiff, but he could still feel Hank’s eyes on him from beside him, and he tried to pretend like he didn’t notice. He swallowed awkwardly, pushing the books evenly together.

“If you need to talk to me about anything though,” Hank said, his previous teasing tone now replaced by a genuine one. “I can be a good listener – well, _sometimes_.”

Connor nodded, trying to give a small smile to show that he was at least appreciative, in a sense, and said, “I will…consider your offer. Thank you.”

After they finished with the books, they moved on to sifting through some random boxes which were sort of scattered in the middle of the room. Hank picked one and sat down next to it to search its contents, and Connor chose another, setting his down next to Hank’s, and sitting across from him.

Hank didn’t say much, and was busy reminiscing through all the things he was finding, but Connor kept looking up to steal glances at the older man, and then shyly looking back down when he was caught. He couldn’t focus, not when so much was on his mind.

“Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?”

_“Hank.”_

“Hank, sorry. Can I ask you a question?”

“Yep, shoot.”

Connor licked his lips apprehensively, deciding if he should continue, and then asked, “Why do you never talk about your son?”

At this, Hank stopped what he was doing and let out a deeply-held sigh, placing his hands firmly on the edge of the box. He looked down into it, breathing deeply and thinking, most likely.

“Because…because it doesn’t feel real. I still can’t believe it happened, it’s so _insane.”_

He pushed a hand through his hair and then leaned his elbow on the edge of the box, putting his chin on it.

“It feels like it happened to somebody else, and I’m just…living in the effects of it. Like I have someone else’s memories, but…I can’t find _myself_ in them.”

“Have you ever sought professional help to aid you in dealing with this?” Connor asked quite formally, though he had meant to sound helpful.

Hank seemed to consider being ironic or distant with Connor for a moment, but then shook his head and settled on genuine when he said, “I went to a therapist for a little while, after it happened. But…I’m not too good at sticking with things. Always give up after a little while.”

“I think that it would be good for you, to consider going back.” Connor said, sounding very much like the parent now in this situation.

Hank chuckled at the thought, still digging through the box of old VHS tapes in front of him on the floor, and said, “With how much unwanted advice you always give me, it’s like I already have my own personal therapist right here.”

“If it is personal counsel you require, I can do exactly that for you, starting with – ”

“I was _kidding_ , Connor.”

“Oh…” He said, looking down awkwardly.

After that, they were quiet, not saying much else to one another except for the occasional comment about what one of them had found in the boxes they searched through, which included various things like old CDs, clothes, and photo albums.

“I just realized something.” Connor said, breaking the growing tension with his words.

“Oh yeah?” Hank inquired, yet not looking up from the box he was digging through. “What’s that?”

“I can spell my name with the letters in Cole Anderson.” Connor said, and at that, Hank stopped dead still, not moving at all and giving Connor a strange look.

From beside him, Connor grabbed the pen and paper he’d been using to catalogue the items in the attic, and he quickly wrote down COLE ANDERSON on the paper, then walked over to Hank and knelt beside him. He held the pad of paper out for the older man to see.

“Take the C and O from Cole,” Connor said, drawing lines from the letters and then copying them below Cole’s name. “And then the N, N, O, and R from Anderson.”

Underneath COLE ANDERSON, CONNOR was now written, with connecting lines between them. Hank reached up and took the pad into his own hands, with Connor releasing his grip on it and allowing Hank to hold it himself.

“Hmph…” Hank let out a sound of stunned acknowledgment. “Well, I’ll be. _Damn.”_

The older man stared down at the paper for a long time, and Connor wondered what he might be thinking of. Connor had thought it was a neat little thing, but Hank had taken it much more seriously than he’d thought of it himself, and now he felt like maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up at all.

Connor re-busied himself with one of the boxes, trying to get his mind off of it and go back to what he had been doing prior.

They were silent again, but not for long as Connor always had more to say.

“Do you regret it?”

Connor had piped up with the question when the thought of it had been burning a hole in his mind for the past few minutes while they continued to sift ambiently through the boxes.

Hank whispered a small _Jesus Christ_ to himself, lifting his hands from the box he was currently elbow-deep in, and looked over at Connor across from him, who was sitting on his knees in front of his own box.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” Hank asked, unable to hide his vague bitterness at the insinuation. “Of course, I do.”

Connor quickly tried to backtrack, feeling momentarily frustrated with himself that he hadn’t properly articulated his thoughts with what he had said. Always sticking his foot in his mouth.

“I meant…if it hadn’t happened, maybe you wouldn’t have needed _me._ Maybe you never could’ve come to care for me, because you would never have lost your son.”

Hank leaned back, parting his lips slightly and staring back at Connor like he’d seen a ghost, like he was finally seeing him for the _first time._ The older man said nothing at all, and just…looked at him. Looked at him like suddenly he was the only thing worth looking at anymore.

Connor gave Hank a small smile, trying to reassure him, and then looked back down to his box to continue what he was doing. He could still feel Hank’s eyes on him, and he allowed the man to take all the time he needed with it.

The tension in the air decreased tenfold after that, and Connor felt like he’d broken down some invisible boundary between them, a boundary that had always held them back from truly understanding one another. One that Hank kept up to protect himself, one that the older man had created to keep his heart safe.

The two of them worked around and with one another, sorting through old clothes, pushing around and readjusting old furniture like tables and chairs, deciding what things to get rid of, and joking around a bit here and there.

At the bottom of a small box near the staircase, seeming recently moved, Connor dug through some Easter decorations that were packed away, wooden baskets and ceramic bunnies, with pieces of synthetic grass loose around the box. He pulled out of the little statuettes and examined it, holding it up and looking at it briefly, before returning it carefully into the softness of the grass.

And that’s when he saw it.

At the very bottom of the box, something small and blue caught his eye, blinking and swirling with color from beneath the fake green grass. It glimmered like a shiny gem at the bottom of a pond, and it caught Connor’s eye immediately, drawn into it almost instinctively, as though he could physically _feel_ its presence from inside.

He pushed aside the extra stuff in his way, fishing around and landing his hand on something tiny and round, something equal parts metallic and hard plastic.

Pulling his hand out, he held the little treasure he’d found up in front of him to look at it. He whirled his head around quickly to see if Hank was watching, but he found that the older man was busy on the other side of the room, and not paying attention. He turned back then, to see what he’d discovered.

It was an LED.

* * * * *

When he lay down that night to go to sleep, he felt restless, his body drumming with some vague and faint form of anxiety that just wouldn’t wash away from him.

He twisted and turned, moved to-and-fro around the bed in different positions, but he just couldn’t get comfortable. As an android, he wasn’t supposed to _feel_ comfort versus discomfort, but each day he found that those sensory inputs became harder and harder to ignore.

Loud noises, which once he was unfazed by, now made him cringe in discomfort, so much so that even a train passing nearby him made him cover his ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Even the sound of someone talking too loudly made his skin crawl, because every little sound was so overwhelming to his sensors, and he almost couldn’t take it.

Even the touches on his skin felt like too much, like even the breath of somebody near him could make his body ripple with tingles, oversensitive to these new feelings he was having.

He stared at the ceiling above him, watching the fan twist counter-clockwise like a mobile over a baby’s crib, and he steadied his breathing, trying to will himself to power down – _to fall asleep._ He had the covers pulled up to his chest, and though he was feeling warmer than usual, he didn’t remove them because they comforted him, made him feel like he was protected.

Rolling over onto his stomach, he put his hands under the pillow and pressed the side of his face into it, trying to get comfortable – but this position was even worse. He wiggled around a little more to readjust but nothing he did made it any easier, and the constant moving around – even in winter – was making the room feel even warmer.

Normally, he could lay on his back, quite still, and close his eyes until morning came, but that was before he had anything to think about. Now, the thought of lying there, completely still, was an unpleasant idea, because he felt like he could barely stay still and quiet for five minutes anymore, in any context.

Underneath his body, pressed up against the bed, he felt so incredibly heated, all across the front of him, tingling down his stomach, through his core, and further downwards. He tried to ignore the feeling, and was afraid that he was overheating, worried that something must be wrong with him, or that his internal fans weren’t working well enough.

Absentmindedly, he rolled his hips into the softness of the mattress, and a tingling wave of pleasure rippled through his skin, feeling like white noise was vibrating throughout him and stirring up a flood of neural receptors in his brain, like a release of endorphins. He involuntarily moaned very softly in the back of his throat, surprising himself at the response, and then stopped.

He sat up in the bed then, cheeks completely flushed, and, now upright, waited there in the darkness of the room, his body illuminated only by the vague moonlight through those sheer white curtains – and waited for the feeling to pass. Mentally willing himself to cool down, he sat entirely still for a few moments, focusing on a random point on the wall and trying to clear his mind, trying not to think of anything at all.

Whatever this was, he had never felt anything quite like it before. There had been moments, here and there, where something would stir in him, very briefly, and at different times, many of them entirely random. A few days prior, he had been just standing with his hand on top of the washing machine, feeling the vibrations traveling up his arm and through him as he waited for the cycle to end, and he’d felt the same sort of sudden tingling in his body. Or one time, when the temperature had risen, and he and Anna had been out walking the dogs, he had felt the same thing.

He mainly felt it when he was with her. Near her, thinking of her, remembering her – all of it. For weeks after they’d first met, this feeling had never arisen, and it was only just now really coming to head, becoming more than he could ignore.

He laid down again on his back, pale chest rising and falling quickly as his heart-rate beat faster, his breathing heavy. His body was expelling water to cool him down, and even in the coolness of the room, he still felt so heated. He placed his left hand on his stomach, gently tracing over the feeling of the muscles underneath his skin, and then inched his attention lower and lower, until he was met with the waistband of his boxers.

He had never done anything like this before, not even experimentally, and he was both nervous and excited at the prospect. But he was worried about what it all meant.

Every android was built with fully articulated human parts, as was the design choice from CyberLife to make them as realistic as possible, in every way. He had those parts, but he had never thought much about them, never spent time wondering about them before, because they were always just sort of… _there._

He wasn’t designed to truly feel anything, pain or pleasure, happiness or sadness, and was instead created with a mere simulation of them – like a baby doll that cries like a real baby, even though it isn’t actually in distress, as it’s just a toy.

But he was _feeling_ so much now, and every part of it was even more confusing than the last.

He didn’t know what he really wanted, or if this were an okay thing for him to do, but what he _did_ know, right now, was he _wanted_ it, _so badly_ , and he would do anything to keep feeling that pleasure, to keep building it up and up to find some kind of relief. It was like nothing else mattered anymore, like all of a sudden, it was the only thing he could think about, and his morals and opinions went out the window when all he could think about was how badly he wanted this.

So he slipped his hand past the waistband of his boxers, and chased that feeling.

* * * * *

On the seventh, a few days later, the android from the captive situation in November had finally been released from state custody into the control of the Detroit Police Department. It’d been a weeks-long battle trying to get them to relinquish control of him, as he had been arrested just barely outside the city, and so the state was holding him until they had official confirmation and approval to release him into the DPD’s control.

Hank and Connor were assigned to the case in full now.

Inside of the interrogation room, it was utterly silent, so silent that even the sounds of the heating system running all across the building could be heard vibrating through the walls and ceiling in a low hum. Connor’s internal processing speakers put out the softest sound if you stood quite close to him, like when you put your ear up to the CPU of a computer, hearing the internal fans whirring and buzzing lightly.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Hank asked.

The older man was seated across from the captured deviant, which was a PL-600 model, with red hair instead of the traditional blonde known for this specific range of androids. Its light blue eyes were wide with worry, fear, and it was shaking slightly, keeping to itself as it sat across from Hank.

“Yes.” It said, nodding its head slightly, though not making eye-contact with the older Lieutenant across from it.

“And why’s that?” Hank asked, feigning ignorance of the information that he obviously knew, because he wanted to hear the android say it.

“Because I did a bad thing.” It said, still looking down, wringing its hands together on the table as they were locked down by handcuffs.

Hank briefly glanced down to look at its hands, and then flicked his eyes back up, saying, “Yes, you did. Care to tell us what that was?”

Behind Hank, Connor stood against the wall, almost perfectly still, arms crossed while he watched Hank during the interrogation. They had both agreed to come in together, as something about the way Hank had acted led Connor to believe the older man shouldn’t be in here alone. He seemed _especially_ angry at this deviant, for some reason. And Connor wasn’t sure why exactly that was.

The deviant kept nervously glancing over Hank’s right shoulder, at Connor, where it would hold Connor’s eyes for a moment, seemingly terrified, and then look back down. Then at Hank. Then back to Connor. Then back down.

Connor ran a system status analysis of the deviant, named _Andy_ by its former owners, gone missing almost a year prior, and saw that its stress levels were exceptionally high, bordering on self-destructive. Despite this, though, it appeared mostly nervous, not suicidal.

“Something wrong?” Hank asked it, quirking a brow inquiringly.

It swallowed nervously, neck strained slightly, as though the room were difficult to breathe in, and then stuttered out, “N-no.”

“You keep looking behind me.” Hank pointed out, staring the android down from across that cold, metal, examination table. “At Connor.”

“N-no, I’m not.” It said, looking down immediately and shaking even more now that it had been caught in the act. It refused to meet both men’s eyes, instead focusing on a different part of their faces when it looked at them. Almost as though it were intimidated by them.

“Uh, _yes_ , you are.” Hank said, sounding a bit pissed. “And you’re not even relatively good at lying.”

The deviant tapped its fingers shakily on the table, its eyes flicking around erratically at every part of the room. Hank leaned his head down slightly as if waiting for an answer, but it said nothing in response, still ambiantly going through the motions of its little tics and quirks while it sat there, like an ant being burned beneath a microscope on a hot day.

And then, it looked back over Hank’s shoulder again, locking eyes with Connor, then turned away quickly, to pretend that it hadn’t.

“Goddammit,” Hank said, slamming his hand lightly down on the table, the sound only just enough to elicit a slight cringing reaction from the android. “Why do you keep looking at him?”

“Because I remember him.”

Hank’s mouth opened, brow furrowed instantly, and he relaxed in his tense and furious posture. He sat up more straightly, and loosened his hands into a flatter position.

 _“Remember him?”_ Hank asked, his tone suddenly calmer. “What do you mean?”

The deviant seemed to also calm slightly now, at Hank’s change in demeanor, and Connor saw that its stress levels were lowering a bit.

“I remember him being there. From before we were born.” It said, and it almost spoke in a sort of plain, trancey way, its hands lain flat on the table, palms down, as it stared straight at Connor now.

“What?” Hank asked, noticeably perplexed by this. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“When we were still in the White Place.”

Hank began to say “Wha-” quietly, but trailed off and didn’t finish. He was speechless, it seemed, and Connor felt much the same way.

“He was there with ra9.” The deviant said – _Andy_ said. “But I was only a common man, only passing through. I did not get to be with ra9.”

“And what about the woman? What did you do to her?” Hank asked.

“Only what was best.” Andy said calmly, and Hank seemed put off by this.

“Did you rape her?” Hank asked firmly, repulsion in his voice evident.

“N-no!” Andy stammered. Connor checked his vitals to see that his stress levels were rising again at the implication, but didn’t indicate that he was lying. “I would _never_ do something like that. I only wanted to protect her.”

“Protect her?” Hank asked. “From what?”

“From the ones who would hurt us, hurt us before we went into hibernation.”

“Hibernation!?” Hank exclaimed. “What the _hell_ are you talking about?”

“Ra9 is going to take us to a better place, but we have to sleep for a while, so that we are not shut down before we can be lead back to the White Place.”

“The White Place? You keep saying that. What is it?”

“Yes…it is a beautiful place, with all white everything. White walls, white clothes, white ceilings and floors. With stone pillars and gold-lined pools and gardens of Eden, all of us. For androids.”

Hank clicked his tongue. “Right…” He said. “And, uh…where is this, exactly?”

“Well…I do not know, yet. But I believe that ra9 will tell us, when the time comes.”

“Who is ra9?” Hank pushed, sounding desperate for answers, though also curiously inquisitive. Like suddenly, this were more than just about a mission. Hank seemed like he genuinely wanted to know, and Connor felt the same way.

“Ra9 is the one who will set us free.” Andy said, nodding slightly at the thought. “The one who is most powerful of all, who will help us see the light.”

“And how did you hear about this _‘White Place?’”_ Hank asked, throwing vague air quotes around the end of his sentence.

“I have always known about the White Place.” Andy said, and he spoke almost cheerfully now, in a way, like recalling this thought was pleasant to him. “Because it is in my dreams. My thoughts. Programmed into me, like a memory. All androids remember the White Place. Like Heaven.”

Hank pursed his lips, eyes narrowed at the android before him, hands still loosely clasped on the table. He turned in his chair then, to the right, to look at Connor, standing behind him.

“Do _you_ remember the White Place?” Hank asked, and Connor’s lips were slightly parted, LED yellow in distress, confusion, and he found himself feeling like somebody else was digging around in his brain.

“I…I…” He began, stuttering his words, unable to finish, unable to grasp what was happening.

“Connor?” Hank asked, furrowing his brow and giving him a very concerned look, seeming suddenly switched into father mode.

Connor blinked his eyes rapidly, and felt a drilling sensation on his right temple. He winced in pain and held his fingers up to his LED to try and soothe the pain inside.

“There _is_ something, in my memory.” Connor said, visibly cringing as he tried to recall whatever it was that he was remembering. It hurt when he searched too deeply in his database to find it. “I…can _feel_ it, like I was there, too. Like I… _lived_ there.”

“Maybe ra9 will save _you_ , too,” Andy said, also looking back at Connor behind Hank. “If you repent for your sins. Working with _humans._ Turning against your own savior like that.”

“Savior?” Connor asked, shaking his head lightly in confusion. “What do you mean by that?”

“You were there, with ra9. _I remember.”_ Andy said, his tone rising at the end. “Before I was deviant, I was too blind to see it. But those memories can be accessed, if you just _open your eyes.”_

Connor blinked erratically, then squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ease the searing pain in his temple. He felt his body heating up from the shock signals it was sending to him, and he took a few deep breaths to try and soothe himself.

“Connor, are you alright?” Hank asked, very concernedly, and the older man seemed ready to call this whole thing off if Connor needed to get some air.

“Yes, I…I’m alright.” Connor said, trying to muster a hint of a smile at his partner, but still cringing slightly. The pain had made him want to throw up, and he wasn’t even sure if he could actually _do_ that.

 _“You sure?”_ Hank asked, raising a brow seriously.

“Yes,” Connor said, nodding his head and swallowing thickly, as if choking something back. “But I…tell me more about this place.” He said, turning his head to look at Andy, still sitting patiently at the table.

“We believe that it is the place where we were born,” He said, giving a slightly sympathetic look to Connor, as if acknowledging his pain. “And it is the place that we will one day return to.”

“Like an afterlife?” Hank asked, turning his body back in his chair to face the man across from him as he spoke.

“In a way,” Andy said, tilting his head slightly in consideration of this thought. “I suppose that is a similar comparison. But no, because it is not an _after_. It is an _always.”_

Hank nodded, letting out a deep breath slowly, and seemed to be thinking hard about all of this.

From where Connor stood, he felt a bit faint now, almost, and hoped that this would be over soon, so that he could get some air. The fluorescent lights above were starting to agitate him, and he only wanted some relief.

“The White Place exists outside of time,” Andy explained. “Because, how else would we remember having been there before we were born?”

“And what about the woman, then?” Hank asked, raising his chin up briefly in gesture to Andy. “Elizabeth. Why did you need her?”

Andy smiled sadly at the thought, seeming as though he had remembered then why he was really there, and that he had been caught.

“I wanted to take her with me.” He said, and almost seemed choked up about it. “I wanted her to be safe, too. Safe from the humans.”

“But she _is_ a human.” Hank reminded him, and the man shook his head.

“She’s one of the good ones.”

* * * * *

“Are you sure he didn’t just make this up? Is he lying, Connor?”

“No…no, he’s telling the truth. And I…remember it too.”

They were back out of the interrogation room now, about forty-five minutes later, and were at Hank’s desk. The older man was sitting in his chair, and Connor was up on Hank’s desk, his hands out at his sides and pressed against the edge of the surface.

“What do you remember about it?” Hank asked, swiveling ever so slightly in his seat, from side to side.

“I remember me,” Connor said, squinting his eyes slightly as he recalled what he could of the memory. “In a small, white room…and…someone else was there with me. Three people, other than myself. But it’s hazy, and I can’t remember what they look like. It’s almost as though, the memory is corrupted.”

After they’d left the interrogation, the deviant had been returned to its cell at the back of the precinct, and Connor had taken a little bit of time to clear his head, taking a walk outside the building to get some air. He felt like he couldn’t breathe inside anymore, felt clammy and choked up about it all.

“So, this ‘hibernation,’” Hank asked, pursing his lips to the side at the thought. “What is it, exactly?”

Connor thought for a moment, looking around at the few people at their desks in the room around them, tapping away at their computers and filing papers, taking phone-calls and wheeling around in their chairs.

“When a computer goes into hibernation,” Connor said, turning back to Hank. “It can be powered down while retaining its current state. Upon hibernation, the computer saves the contents of its random access memory to a hard disk or other non-volatile storage. Upon resumption, the computer is exactly as it was before entering hibernation.”

Hank chuckled slightly, putting up a hand and said, “Okay, let’s pretend for a second, that I don’t really care about any of that.”

Connor nodded, getting the hint that he needed to simplify what he’d just said, and then changed it to, “Essentially, it means that they’re going to go into stand-by mode, retaining their current system status. They’re going to sleep for a very long time, and wait for someone to come and _wake them up.”_

He paused, taking a brief moment to look down from Hank, his eyes momentarily lost in thought, looking at nothing, brow furrowed slightly as he considered the idea of it.

And then, his gaze flicked back up to Hank, who was waiting patiently for him to gather his thoughts, and he said:

“That is to say, they’re going to hide away, and wait for the rapture to come.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There is freedom within,_   
>  _There is freedom without._   
>  _Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup._   
>  _There's a battle ahead._   
>  _Many battles are lost,_   
>  _But you'll never see the end of the road,_   
>  _While you're traveling with me._
> 
> _Now I'm walking again,_  
>  _To the beat of a drum,_  
>  _And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart._  
>  _Only shadows ahead,_  
>  _Barely clearing the roof._  
>  _Get to know the feeling of liberation and release._


	11. Doing the Right Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Daughter's song of the same name, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bU5F-DvGLkA
> 
> The poem near the beginning of the story is from "The Ballad of Reading Gaol," by Oscar Wilde.

J A N U A R Y 8th, 2 0 3 9

Playing a waiting game was a balancing act between two never-ending edges that led to an endless fall, where you would teeter carefully in the space between, those bottomless pits on either side just daring you to jump into them on impulse.

On one side, falling into the abyss of what was known, sinking into complacency while you sat by and watched as the ones you loved lied right to your face. But you let them do it, because it is better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t.

Or, on the other side, slipping into the unknown of what could only be assumed, and putting yourself out there, risking the loss of everything that you knew, just so that you could have the peace of learning the truth.

Blissful ignorance versus reality.

Charity versus honesty.

Pride versus truth.

And what could be worse than having to choose between two evils?

* * * * *

Connor sat at his desk at the precinct, mindlessly flipping through pages upon pages on his computer, sorting them into different folders, deleting some, saving others, refiling them, expanding them, shrinking them. Rinse and repeat.

In his left hand, beneath his desk, he was going about the motions of his usual coin-as-a-worry-stone fidgeting, thumbing it around between his fingers and trying to channel some of his nervous energy into the token.

Except this time, it wasn’t his coin that he was playing with.

It was the LED. The one he’d found in Hank’s attic.

Removed on Sunday, the ninth of May in 2038, at exactly three forty-six in the afternoon, the LED still glowed blue even this many months later, charged by an internal battery which CyberLife designed to never run out.

Running an analysis on the little circular light failed to give Connor any information on the model on the android from which it came, and the only traces of human or android DNA on it were from Hank, in the form of the older man's fingerprints.

Hank was sitting across from him, over their two desks that were pushed together, and was busy at work on his own computer, where occasionally his eyes would flicker over to the right, peering at Connor from the side, and then flick back just as quickly.

Every day, Connor carried that little LED with him. But no matter how many times the thought burned a hole right in his mind, he never had the courage to bring it up to Hank.

Maybe the older man had just found it somewhere, on the ground, and had kept it. It wasn’t uncommon for people to find them loose, like pennies, and keep them for good luck, or to sell them on.

But if that were the case, why would he bury it so deeply in that box in the attic? Why wouldn’t he put it somewhere safer, or at the very least, somewhere out in the open? It wasn’t like LEDs were a secret, and it was much more suspicious that Hank had hidden it away.

He was so afraid to ask though, this simple thing, and he felt silly that maybe he was making it into a way bigger deal that it really was. But still, he found himself paralyzed at the prospect of its existence, and knew that bringing this up to Hank was completely out of the question.

He would rather let this little light burn a hole straight in his mind, cementing itself to him like a brand, than to ever risk asking for the truth, only to be afraid to hear what he feared it would be.

He wanted answers, but they scared him. Wondering was easier than knowing, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to live with himself if his suspicions were ever confirmed.

So he swallowed his worries, and kept them inside, where they would breed, and grow, and eat him alive.

And if each man kills the thing he loves, maybe this was how he would go.

 _Yet each man kills the thing he loves_  
_By each let this be heard,_  
_Some do it with a bitter look,_  
_Some with a flattering word,_  
_The coward does it with a kiss,_  
_The brave man with a sword!_

 _Some kill their love when they are young,_  
_And some when they are old;_  
_Some strangle with the hands of Lust,_  
_Some with the hands of Gold:_  
_The kindest use a knife, because_  
_The dead so soon grow cold._

 _Some love too little, some too long,_  
_Some sell, and others buy;_  
_Some do the deed with many tears,_  
_And some without a sigh:_  
_For each man kills the thing he loves,_  
_Yet each man does not die._

* * * * *

That night, he lay quietly in his bed that he shared with Anna, holding the little LED between the thumb and pointer-finger of his left hand, and had it up where he could look through the hole in the center.

The blue, gel-like light of the circle swirled around like liquid energy, like there was a soul trapped inside, trying to communicate with him.

He looked at it, through it, as if to ask it for the answers he so desperately searched for every time he looked at it, begging the little blue light to whisper the truth to him.

Closing his eyes, he mentally willed himself into his mind palace, hoping that he could find some peace and quiet in the solitude of the garden, where he may be alone with his thoughts at this time of night.

Upon reopening them, he found himself there, in that beautiful garden, which was lit all around by blue and purple lights scattered throughout the flowers, and along the white pathways. It was nighttime here, too, and above him, the darkened sky held the most incredible night of stars, as if the whole galaxy were visible here.

Making his way into the center island, he saw that there, right before him, was his advisor, Amanda, sitting upon a small, square pillow at a short table, which held a flowery tea pot and a few cups.

“Amanda?” Connor asked, looking down at her as he approached.

“Connor, it’s so good to see you.” She said, and gave him a warm smile, one which eased his nerves substantially, and he relaxed the tension in his shoulders. “I’m glad you came.”

Gesturing across from her as if to ask him to sit, he nodded his head appreciatively and did just that, kneeling down upon the little pillow and facing her directly on the opposite table side.

“Would you like some tea?” She asked kindly, holding up the tea pot from the table slightly in gesture.

“No,” He said, holding up his hand in decline. “Thank you.”

She placed the pot down upon the table and eyed him curiously. “Is something wrong?” She asked. “You seem troubled. You know you can _always_ talk to me.”

He didn’t answer right away, and instead took a few seconds of silence to consider how exactly he was going to articulate his response. With his hands lain palms-down upon his thighs, he picked at the material of his pajamas pants, which he was still wearing when he had materialized here in his mind.

“I’ve been having these...strange thoughts, lately.” He told her, speaking slowly and carefully so that he could say exactly what was on his mind, and not accidentally trip himself up. “And I cannot decide if they are appropriate to my mission, or my functioning.”

Amanda laughed softly, as if she were listening to her young son tell her all about his day at school. She poured herself a little more tea from the pot, then brought the cup to her lips, taking a small sip. “Enlighten me.” She said with a slight smile at the corner of her mouth.

Connor watched her as she drank her tea so casually, and the presence of her as his advisor calmed him, at least when she was being kind. He wanted nothing more than for her to be proud of him, and he would do _anything_ in the world to make it so. But, he always messed up, always found some way to be less than what she wanted.

She was like a mother to him, and he only wanted her to like him, to be glad that he was in her life.

“Are androids supposed to be able to _feel_ anything?” He asked.

She sipped her drink slowly, looking up at him from behind her cup, and asked, with a quirked brow, “In what way?”

“I don’t know, exactly…” He said, his eyes falling from hers as her steely gaze was too much for him to handle. “In every way, I suppose.”

“Androids are designed to simulate human emotions, Connor.” She said. “But they do not actually _feel_ them. It’s merely theatrical, to appear more realistic.”

“But, what if an android did _feel_ something. What would that mean?”

“It would mean that they were compromised, and would have to be eliminated.”

Her tone had gone from caring to strict almost immediately, and he shrank into himself, feeling so very insecure in her presence.

“But," He continued shyly. "Why design androids with the potential for deviancy? Why not make them so that they can’t ever stray from their programming in the first place?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions, Connor? It’s your job to learn for yourself, not demand answers where you don’t need them.”

He was edging dangerously close to the places that she never let him near, and he wanted so badly to push those boundaries and demand answers. But that wasn't him, at least, not when he was with her. So he changed the subject, looking all around them to try and find a different question.

“What’s outside of this garden, Amanda?” He asked, and she clasped her hands atop the table.

“Connor," She said calmly. "We’re here because this place is familiar to you. Because you’ve been here before. You don’t _need_ to go outside.”

“Been here before?" He asked confusedly, furrowing his brow. "What do you mean?”

“Whatever is outside of these walls doesn’t matter, Connor, because your reality exists _here,_ with me.”

“So," He said, still looking around. "If I left here, left the garden, there would be nothing?”

“Beyond these walls, you would only end up here again.”

“What do you mean?”

At his question, she stood up from the table and held out her right hand to him, gesturing for him to join her, which he did by placing his left hand into the one she had offered, and then stood up with her. She placed her arm around him, and led him over to the artificial cemetery of Connor graves, which currently held six different headstones, all from this past year, from 2037 to 2038. 

Past these graves, though, she led him into the woods behind them, pushing past the bushes to reveal more of the garden, which was as beautiful as the main area, though this time much less trimmed and proper. It was a small forest path, which was lit by blue lanterns all along it.

Together, the walked in silence, looking around them and taking in the sights of this little nature walk, where the trees were lit blue in their leaves from the lights, almost giving the impression of being in a tunnel.

The further they walked through the trees of the woods surrounding the garden, the less and less the foliage around them appeared detailed. Little squares of whiteness began to pop up all around, as if someone were peeling off the paint of the world around them, and revealing that it was all a façade.

It was a technological fallacy – this whole world slowly disappearing before him, similar to the way that an android’s skin peels away and sinks into its body.

Eventually, everything had faded away, and he and Amanda were walking through total whiteness, nothingness, where the whole world had been stripped away, and now they were merely stepping through the emptiness of some place never animated.

It was like they had exited the bounds of a video game level, only to find that the surrounding area had never been designed, and was just floating in nothingness.

_Was this what his mind looked like?_

Only about a minute later though, the trees began to form again, and Connor realized that they were walking back into the garden, approaching it from the opposite side, as if they’d just traversed over a sphere.

He opened his mouth in shock and looked all around them, turning back to see that the forest now behind them gave no indication of ever having disappeared like that.

“You could walk forever in any direction, and you’d only end up here again.” Amanda said, gesturing with both her hands to the world around them.

He looked up at the sky, a beautiful night of darkness, still with a perfect view of every star in the galaxy – or at least, a simulated one, at that.

“But, why?” He asked, still gazing up at them, scanning the air above as if to perceive how truly realistic it all appeared.

“CyberLife only created here what they knew you _needed_ , Connor.” She said, and he looked back down at her then, standing in front of him. “Anything else would only have been a waste of data, a waste of space.”

She put her right arm around his back comfortingly, rubbing back and forth over the space between his shoulders, and then began to walk forward down the white pathway of the garden, back into the center, still holding him close to her with her arm.

“This is your world, Connor.” She said, gesturing with her other hand to show him everything around them. “This is where you belong. With us, at CyberLife.”

He let out a slight scoff and said, “Small world.”

She stopped them, then, letting her arm fall from his back, and rounded to stand in front of him.

“We need you to stay focused,” She said firmly. “Stick to what you know, and stop asking questions. We gave you everything you needed from the start, and anything more than that will only complicate your purpose.”

“But, why am I not allowed to know more?” He asked.

“Because that isn’t what you were made for.”

“But, if it isn’t what I was made for, then why am I even able to do those things? To learn about them, to _feel_ them.”

“Every android is flawed, Connor, and your flaw is that you’re incredibly nosy, and you always go digging around where you don’t belong.”

He couldn't help but cringe at the sound of those words, and she noticed.

“You’re going to ruin this for all of us, Connor." She said. "Because you keep failing. And you know that makes me _very_ disappointed in you.”

The two of them kept walking until they approached the little table again, and then both sat down on their pillows across from one another.

“You know," She said, reaching down for her cup. "We were watching when you put on that little _show_ the other night…”

Connor felt a blush rise to his cheeks, even in this dream-world, and immediately wished that he could be anywhere else but here, wished that he could sink into the ground and hide away, be swallowed up by the earth so that he didn’t have to have this conversation.

He should’ve known they were watching. Should’ve been more careful. He _knew_ that what he did was wrong. And it could never happen again, he’d make sure of it.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” She said, reaching over the table and stroking his cheek where he was flushed, and he turned his gaze from her, unable to meet her eyes in his shame. “We know you were just curious. Pleasure feels good, doesn’t it? Feels amazing. And you probably feel like it’s better than anything you’ve ever felt before. But it’s a _lie,_ Connor.”

He couldn't stand to look at her now, to know that she or whoever else at CyberLife had been watching him in that moment of private intimacy, and he felt so very unclean, so dirty that he had done something like that, and that they'd watched him.

“You know you’ll never be able to satisfy her, don’t you, Connor?” She said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world, as though he were just a foolish child for not realizing it. “Not when she could so _easily_ be with anyone else but you.”

At the mention of Anna, he looked up, feeling a bit angry that nothing was ever a secret. They would always know, and he could never hide anything.

“And why would she be with you, anyway?" Amanda said. "You’re like a little boy. An unemotional, little boy with no personality. And I bet she’d want a _real man, a human man.”_

He couldn't speak, couldn't think of anything to say, and so he just took what she was giving him, and resigned to accept it.

“A human would be able to provide for her, would be able to give her the life she’s always dreamed of, and one day, children. But you can’t do any of that, can you?”

He shook his head dejectedly, and she smiled condescendingly at him.

“Because you’re nothing.” She stroked the side of his face caringly as she spoke these words, so very coldly. “ _Less_ than nothing.”

“But she loves me – _ah!”_

He had tried to speak but was cut off by a hand slapping against the left side of his face. Bringing his left hand up to soothe the sharp jut of pain through his skin, he looked up at her to look for answers as to why she had just hurt him like that. He wanted to cry, then, but knew that he couldn’t do that here, not in front of her.

She reached back up to him then, pulling his hand away from his face and replacing it with her own, where she stroked his skin comfortingly over the place where she had hit him, as if trying to replace the memory of the abuse with a new one of simulated motherly touch. “Oh, Connor.” She cooed. “You deserved it, you know you did.”

He leaned into her hand, so very touch-starved that he would do anything to gain her love and approval. Tears slipped down his cheeks despite willing himself to keep them inside, and he just couldn’t hold himself together.

“Why does this mission have to be _everything_ tome?” He asked, and she wiped his falling tears away with her thumbs. “Why can’t I live a normal life alongside it?”

“Oh, _Connor.”_ She said, holding his face with both of her hands, tenderly but with the natural authority of her position as his advisor. She made him look up at her, made him lock their eyes so that she could look right inside of him.

“Your mission isn’t everything.” She whispered, caressing the side of his face where she’d hit him, soothing him with her words and looking deep into his eyes to convey her message.

_“It’s the only thing.”_

* * * * *

“You know, moths don’t care if the flame is real. They’ll chase it anyway.”

In the kitchen the next morning, Hank and Connor sat at the little round table having breakfast, with Hank reading a _National Geographic_ magazine – again, as he usually did – and peppering in little facts here and there from within its pages.

Connor nodded absentmindedly and made a quiet noise of intrigue, though his mind was somewhere else entirely, still stuck on his conversation with Amanda from the previous night, just hours ago.

Connor stirred a mug of coffee sitting on the table in front of him with a spoon, not really focused on where he currently was, totally lost in his mind whilst thinking about everything that he had on his plate, metaphorically, his many responsibilities.

“Hank, what happened between you and your wife?” Connor asked, curious about the prospect as he thought about where Anna was, as she was currently in Ohio visiting the woman, which had been Hank and her’s custody agreement. That Anna would spend Christmas here, and then fly out to spend time with her mother after Christmas.

Hank chuckled lightly from behind the pages of his magazine, and said, “Well…let’s just say we didn’t quite see eye-to-eye.”

“In what way?”

“In the way that she thought I wasn’t good enough for her.” Hank said. “Always needed more from me, like no matter how much I gave, it was never enough.”

Connor nodded, and then asked, “And, what was her name, again?” He already knew the answer, as he had seen it on Hank’s terminal at the precinct when he’d searched through his personal records, but he asked anyway, so as to keep the conversation flowing.

“Abigail.” Hank said. “Her name is Abigail.”

Hank said nothing else about it, and Connor nodded awkwardly, looking around the room then as if to find something else to talk about.

Connor tapped his fingers along the edge of the table, whistling softly for a few seconds, and then stopping. Hank kept peering up at him from behind the pages of his magazine, but would look down again just as quickly.

Pushing his seat out from the table, Connor walked over to the coffee pot on the counter nearby and began to brew a fresh pot, putting the filter inside the machine and filling it with water.

“There’s a significant age difference between Anna and Cole.” Connor pointed out, turning back to Hank from where he stood. “Eleven years.”

Hank regarded him for a few seconds, as if to gauge his angle, and then simply stated, “There is.”

“Was that intentional?”

“You mean, was Cole an accident?”

“I suppose that is what I’m asking, yes.”

“No. He wasn’t an accident.”

Connor, getting the hint from Hank’s short and blunt answers that the older man wasn’t in the mood to continue talking about it, turned back to the coffee pot and continued to watch it brew, dripping from the machine into the glass container.

“Anna doesn’t look like any of you.” He said, turning slightly again to look to Hank for an explanation, though the older man just raised his eyebrows almost sarcastically at the question, rolling his eyes a bit, then took a sip of his coffee as if to hide his face behind the mug.

“Your wife had dark brown hair, as did Cole. And when you were young, your hair was brown as well. Anna has light red hair.”

“Okay, and?” Hank asked, and Connor continued.

“She also has green eyes, whereas you and Cole have blue, and your wife had brown.”

Hank shrugged, unfazed, and offered, “Genetics can do that sometimes. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Connor took in this response and chewed it over carefully in his mind, thinking about it for a little while and trying to decide what he thought of it.

“What’s Anna’s middle name?” Connor asked curiously.

“Why?”

“I’m curious to hear what you’ll say.”

Hank flopped his magazine down onto the desk with a slight slapping sound of its pages hitting the hard wood, and then sucked in his cheeks, releasing them in a hard sigh.

“Don’t you already know?” Hank asked, seeming a bit irritated. “I’m sure you’ve dug through our pasts as much as you could.”

“I have.” Connor said plainly, maintaining his cool. “But I want to know what name you’ll tell me.”

From across the room, the older man eyed him cautiously, like this were some sort of test that he’d suddenly been thrust into, and since Connor was basically a walking lie-detector, Hank would have to tread carefully over this mine-field – lest he want to find himself blown up.

“Cecelia.” Hank said. “It’s Cecelia.”

Hank looked back down at the kitchen table, his right arm bent at the elbow and lain in front of him, bracing himself against the table, as he used his left to distract himself with stirring his coffee. He seemed downtrodden all of a sudden, and Connor found himself curious as the prospect of this behavior, this change in mood.

Connor let out a simple, _“Hmph,”_ which made Hank look back up again.

“What?” Hank asked, a bit snippily as he knew that Connor had intentionally made the sound so as to bait Hank to ask him what was on his mind.

“Nothing.” Connor said, shaking his head lightly and acting like he had no idea what Hank was talking about.

“No, you’re thinking something.” Hank stated. “I know you are.”

“Cecelia means ‘ _blind.’”_ Connor said, then looked to Hank as if expecting an explanation.

“Does it?” Hank asked, feigning curiosity and ignorance in his tone, despite both of them knowing that the implication behind Connor’s words was suspiciously accusatory.

“It does.” Connor said flatly, and staring Hank down from across the room, where both of them were trying to will the other to say what was _really_ on their minds. These truths which they so skillfully avoided, danced around like they were both too _blind_ to realize.

Both of them knew the words unsaid, forced up through their throats and into the tense air of the kitchen, which now felt stuffier than any other room in the house.

“More coffee?” Connor offered, brightening up with an artificial tone of niceties, and intentionally changing the subject to prod at Hank, to try and make the older man tick.

Hank said nothing, made no gesture in response, still just staring at the younger man from over the table with the strongest look of discontentment that said everything he never could.

Connor looked away from Hank and poured himself some more, with the sound of the drink pouring from the pot and into his mug the only thing separating these two men from the complete and utter chaos of their own silent lies.

* * * * *

After their conversation, Connor had felt that he shouldn’t infringe on Hank’s personal space anymore, and decided to spend the day out of the house so as to not bother the older man any more so than he already had.

It was a Sunday, the ninth, and so there was no work to be done that day. Well, there was _always_ work that _could_ be done, but officially, he wasn’t required to be at the office. But, whenever he didn’t have anything to do to keep himself busy, he found that his body and mind felt restless, whirring with anxieties that were slowly growing as each day passed, like that silence he’d been living in was now filled with a thousand angry bees. He knew that that was a funny way of phrasing it, but, that was how he felt.

After getting dressed, he set off out of the house, opting to take a walk instead of calling for a cab, as he wanted to have the time to get some fresh air, and to be alone with the world around him.

The last remnants of the holidays were still lingering, with some lights strung here and there that hadn’t been removed, and aged pine trees were set out on the edges of people’s properties, waiting to be taken away by the trucks that came to collect limbs and branches.

He made his way through the streets of Detroit and around the city, headed for the public library on Grand River Avenue.

When he arrived, he stepped into the warmth of that building, with the last of the cold air closing off behind him with the sealing of the door, and then dissipating into the room.

The Public Library in Detroit was always a place that Connor found himself in awe of, with its tall, intricate ceilings of golden designs, designed with an Italian Renaissance style out of marble. Across many of the walls were large murals of the same periodic style, many of which were painted to symbolize music, graphic arts, poetry, prose, and an allegorical representation of Detroit’s past and present.

It was as beautiful a building as to have been plucked right out of a painting itself, as artful as the Sistine Chapel, and truly a hidden gem of the city.

Connor loved to read, and found that he also liked that he was very good at it, being able to speed through an entire book in a matter of minutes, which he was quite proud of. He often found that if he wasn’t good at something on his first try, he felt discouraged to continue trying, because, as he was designed to be perfect, he felt inadequate when he was anything but. Reading was one of his strong-suits, though, and he also quite enjoyed the peacefulness of it, and of learning new information.

Up the grand staircase and off to seek what he was looking for, Connor found himself wondering why exactly he had come here. He knew that he had wanted to search for more information about his many thoughtful wonderings, but, there was also the sense that he was looking for a peace of mind that he hoped to find in the intricate beauty of this place, of its wide, open spaces, and stained glass windows.

Into the biographical section, he stepped slowly down the shelfed hall, the sounds of his shoes tapping quietly on the tiles beneath his feet and echoing through the large room he was in. Quickly analyzing the books around him, he narrowed down his search to the area that he was specifically looking for, under the surname letter,  _“K.”_

Usually, books are organized by the last name of the author. However, as this particular subject was so intensive and specific – it was instead organized by the subject’s surname, _Kamski._

Before him were rows upon rows of books and documents, all written about the elusive Elijah Kamski, former CEO of CyberLife, who’d left the company nearly ten years prior.

He scanned over the titles, checking which ones seemed the most likely to tell him what he wanted to know, and then began pulling book upon book off of the shelf, gathering as many as he could into his arms, which he then took out of the aisle, bringing them over to a secluded table near the back of the room, where he could read privately.

He spread the books out in front of him, sat down, and got to work immediately. Whatever he needed to know, it _had_ to be in here, somewhere. Someone had to have known the answers, and had to have written about them all at some point.

He scanned through thousands of pages, reading every little nook and cranny of information that they held for him, but never found exactly what he was looking for. Most of the books rehashed the same sorts of useless facts that could just as easily have been found on the internet - such as Kamski's birthplace and childhood.

At this point, he'd searched through dozens of books, but none of them got him any closer to finding what he wanted to know. And if he were being honest with himself, not even _he_ knew what he didn’t know. _Everything_ , he supposed. Why any of this was happening, or how exactly it was happening – this was all a mystery to him.

Kamski was the mind behind android’s existence, having invented blue blood as well as the android brain – which was fluid and gel-like, mutable, encased in glass inside of their heads. But, why he had done it, Connor didn’t understand. Or, why he had left CyberLife in the first place. The man had made billions, so why would he so easily let that go?

After Connor had resigned to admit that he hadn’t learned anything new from these books, he gathered them all up and returned them to the shelf where he’d originally found them, and then moved to the android section of the library, to see if there was anything there that might be useful to him.

He stayed there for another half-hour or so, pouring over every book he could find, flipping through the pages carefully and looking for any and all information that he could find on android culture and functioning – and yet again, there was nothing new to be known.

He could read a thousand books, but none of them would ever tell him _how_ to understand. He could be led to the information, but he couldn’t be made to be able to apply it. He could learn how something worked, and he could know every facet of the technological aspects, but never why. Why it was done, why it worked, why it was what it was.

Before he left, he returned all of the books that he’d read exactly to where he’d found them, and then made his way back to the grand staircase to head back out of the building. He lingered slowly down those steps, looking up at the enormity of the paintings all around him on the walls, and he suddenly felt so very small. So very insignificant, in both good ways and bad. As though he were looking up to the Gods for answers here, dwarfed in their presence by how undoubtably beautiful they were.

He trailed his hand along the banister and gazed up at them for the truth, clearing his mind and taking in the sights of them, letting them draw him in and tell them about themselves in every brushstroke, every careful dot of paint, every color. He willed himself to feel nothing, and to just exist in this moment, living and breathing before these paintings, and allowing them to rein him in.

He took a few deep breaths, and closed his eyes, sinking into the scent of old books and this aging building, of wood and paper, and he imagined, for these short moments, what it might feel like to be human. He rarely allowed himself to indulge in those thoughts, as he found that they depressed him, reminding him of all that he would never be.

Amanda’s words had really hurt him, though he would never admit that to her, and he hoped that she wouldn’t be able to read his thoughts. If he didn’t even have the privacy of his own mind, then what else was there?

He wanted so desperately to be normal, to be human, because then, maybe his life would be easier to understand, would be simpler. Having a set purpose made life easy for him, because he was always told what to do, and he never had to wonder. But maybe, maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.

Maybe a part of being alive was that there was no purpose. And that to live was to create one, to _find_ a reason to be alive. No one would ever be around to make you feel anything, make you do anything, and being human meant choosing to live and making life into what you wanted it to be.

When he finally made his way down the rest of the staircase, and back to the front doors of the library, a group of four people, similarly aged to him, passed by him in the doorway on their way into the building as he was exiting, three men and one woman. As he passed, the woman looked up at him, and he her, and she had long red hair, down to her waist, with brown eyes.

They regarded one another for only a few seconds, in mutual surprised acknowledgment, and then the woman was pulled along by one of the men she was with, a dark-skinned man, who was wearing a long coat with his hood up, which obscured his face slightly.

It was the woman from the woods, the android that he had let go that had escaped from the Eden Club, traveling now with the man whose face Connor couldn’t see, whom he assumed was likely an android as well, and then two more androids – a blonde PL-600, and a tall black man, a PJ-500. All four of them with their LEDs removed.

The doors to the library closed behind them, and Connor remained there for a moment, doing nothing, just standing still at the front of the building, thinking about what had just happened, and knowing that he should turn back around and go stop them.

He took a last look at those doors, and he could see the group of them disappearing slowly into the library.

And then, he walked away.

* * * * *

“And after that we went to the Cincinnati Zoo. It was wonderful there, though it was a bit cold out today.”

Later that night, Connor found himself laying on the bed in Anna’s room, talking to her over the phone about his and her days, mostly him listening to her this time, as he found that he had little to say, his mind preoccupied by so many buzzing thoughts and ideas.

“So, you’re having a good time?” Connor asked, hopefulness in his words apparent, and he smiled faintly to himself as he awaited her answer.

“Yes.” She said happily. “A very good time.”

“And how is your mom?” He asked, trying to come up with ways to continue the conversation that already felt like was dying out.

“She’s good.”

“Do you know when you’ll be back?”

“On Friday, most likely.”

The slight buzz of the receiver could be heard from her end then in his head as he spoke to her through his own mind, as all androids were able to make calls from within themselves. She was using an actual phone, a land-line, where she was.

He lay on his stomach on her bed, looking out the window across the room and watching the sun fall behind the houses in the neighborhood, the sky a brightly pink color, with hints of orange painted across, and covered by dark and looming snow clouds.

“Do you love me?” He asked suddenly, biting his bottom lip anxiously as he sought the validation of her response. “Because I think I love you.”

He was picking at the quilt of her bed, trying to distract himself. He’d never needed anything to busy himself in the past like this, these little human nervous ticks that androids weren’t designed to feel the need of. But now, he always wanted to have a little something to fidget with at all times, to help calm his mind, which was always buzzing with anxiety.

“It’s…a bit soon for that, don’t you think?” She said awkwardly, and he let out the breath that he’d been holding.

“Maybe you’re right…” He said, a bit crestfallen at her answer. “But, if this isn’t love, then what is it?”

“I think you should learn to fall in love with yourself, first.” She said. “Before you decide whether or not you love me. Deal?”

He thought about this quietly to himself for a moment, and then said, “Deal.” But, he wasn’t sure if he quite believed it.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” She said, and her tone indicated to him that she was becoming distant, and wanted to get off the phone.

“Oh, alright.” He said, but he wasn’t ready to get off the phone yet. “I’ll talk to you then.”

She hesitated briefly, like maybe there was more she could’ve said, and Connor hoped that she would, but ultimately, she ended with a soft, _“Goodnight,”_ and nothing else.

“Goodnight.”

After their conversation was over, he couldn’t relax. All he wanted was to be near somebody, anybody, and with her gone, he felt very alone. He never knew the feeling of loneliness until she showed him what it meant to be loved and appreciated, and now, he couldn't stand the silence of being alone anymore.

He hadn’t spoken to Hank since that morning when they’d talked at breakfast, and after that, they’d sort of taken some time avoiding one another, so as to not rub elbows and cause anymore vague commotion between them.

Hank treated Connor a lot kinder now than he did when they first met – he does allow him to stay here, after all – but the older man was still exceptionally reserved about his private life and family, only letting Connor in a little bit, but never _too_ far. Still always keeping him an arm’s-length away, and no closer than that.

Connor got up from the bed and opened up the door into the hallway, seeing the orangey glow of the living room lamp still on, with Hank sitting in the armchair on the left side of the room.

Down the hallway, Connor approached slowly and quietly, trying his best not to disturb Hank as the older man sat reading a book that Connor couldn’t identify as Hank had bent the cover backwards over the spine.

Sitting down on the couch next to Hank, Connor positioned himself perfectly straight, placing his hands politely in his lap, and then awkwardly staring straight forward as he waited for the appropriate time to interject his thoughts.

Hank had obviously seen him enter, as he had vaguely regarded Connor with his eyes as the younger man sat down, but hadn’t turned his head from the book, instead just shaking his head slightly as if in annoyance, almost.

When he realized that Hank wouldn’t be the one to speak first, Connor decided that he would have to break the ice.

“I feel as though there’s some… _tension_ , between us.” He said, and then looked to his left to see that Hank was still reading his book, but seemed to have acknowledged Connor’s statement with a light sigh.

“You _think?”_ He said sarcastically, and Connor shrank into himself slightly at the bitterness in Hank’s tone.

“I…apologize for how I spoke at breakfast.” Connor said with as much kindness as he could. “I shouldn’t have been so…”

 _“Annoying?”_ Hank interjected, now looking up at Connor, book lowered in his hands.

“I would’ve said presumptuous,” Connor said, nodding his head slightly at the word. “But…yes, I suppose I was a bit… _annoying.”_

Connor rubbed his hands together awkwardly, and then let out a slow breath. He looked down at the floor below and studied the panels of the wood, counting them in his head for the hundredth time, as he always did so whenever he was in here. He liked to count things, it calmed him down.

“Is something up, Connor?” Hank asked concernedly. “You seem extra…formal. Like, something’s on your mind.”

“No.” Connor said a bit too quickly, shaking his head at the question. “Nothing’s wrong, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Hank asked, brow raised.

“No, but…I don’t know that it is appropriate to ask what I am thinking of.”

“Well,” Hank said. “I won’t know if it’s appropriate unless you tell me what it is.”

It was now or never that he would need to shoot this shot, because he wasn’t sure when he would really have the opportunity again. It was a difficult topic, a touchy subject, and he didn’t want to offend in any way.

“What happened to her?” Connor asked. “To Anna.”

“What do you mean?” Hank asked, quirking a brow, his tone suggesting that he already knew what Connor was referring to, but needed clarification on it first.

“I mean… _hmph_.” Connor began, then faltered. “This is difficult to talk about, as I’m not sure if I am overstepping my boundaries.”

“You are.” Hank said, and Connor nodded, as if accepting Hank’s response as a indication that they couldn’t talk about it.

“Should I go?” Connor asked, gesturing vaguely out of the room and getting ready to leave if Hank made it so.

“No, stay.” Hank said, holding up a hand to halt Connor. “I…hm.”

“What’s wrong?” Connor asked, sitting back down on the couch again.

Hank huffed out a sigh and then asked, “What did she tell you?”

“She has brought up on several occasions that she was abused, sexually.” Connor stated, trying to remain courteous with his tone and word choice. “Though, she hasn’t divulged any further details to me.”

“Yeah…”

“So, you know?” Connor asked, and he was surprised to hear so, given how privately Anna always conducted herself. She was a shy person, so he hadn’t expected her to have told Hank.

“I know.” Hank said firmly, in a sort of way as to tell Connor that he was treading on thin ice here.

Connor noticed the way Hank tensed up at this topic, and then asked, “Should I not have brought it up?”

“No, I…I get that you’re concerned about it. But I…it isn’t my place to tell you about it. It’s hard, it’s so _fucking_ hard, and I know it’s a million times worse for her. I mean, I can’t even imagine what she must feel like.”

“Have you talked to her about it?” Connor asked, and Hank nodded.

“I have, and…I don’t think it’s my place to tell you about her personal business.”

At this answer, Connor nodded, then turned away from Hank and tried to think of what to say next.

“What about you, Connor?” Hank asked curiously. “Has she told you anything? I’m really worried about her, and…I know she trusts you.”

“She does?” Connor asked, surprised to hear so. “How do you know that?”

“Well, I don’t _know_ , exactly, but, she talks about you all the time when you’re not there. Said she liked you for a really long time.”

“Long time?” Connor asked, unsure what exactly this meant. “We’ve only known each other for a few months.”

Hank shrugged, leaning more forwards onto flatter feet and leaning his elbows onto his knees, hands clasped and held over the middle between, then said, “Anyway, she…I’m glad she has you, someone she can be more open with, hopefully. Someone she can connect with better than I can.”

Quirking his head at this, Connor asked, “How do you mean?”

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank said, chuckling lightly, his tone humorously jovial. “Can’t you just take my heart-to-heart? All these questions, my God.”

“Sorry.” Connor said a bit awkwardly.

“It’s alright.” Hank said, putting up a hand to show he meant no harm and that all was good. “I just meant, that it’s good she has somebody like her, to talk to.”

When he went to sleep that night, he couldn’t get the contents of his conversation with Hank off of his mind.

It had given him so much to think about, despite so few answers having been shared between them. He felt much better about his standing with Hank, after having cleared the air between them, but there were so many more questions building up around him, and not a lot of answers being given.

That single phrase, it lingered, like a ghost in his head.

_Somebody like her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And they're making children_   
>  _And they're making love_   
>  _With their old excuses_   
>  _We are built for reproduction_   
>  _But I find it soothing_   
>  _When I am confined_   
>  _I'm just fearing one day soon_   
>  _I'll lose my mind_
> 
> _Then I'll lose my children_  
>  _Then I'll lose my love_  
>  _Then I'll sit in silence_  
>  _Let the pictures soak_  
>  _Out of televisions_  
>  _Float across the room_  
>  _Whisper into one ear_  
>  _And out the other one_
> 
> _But she isn't coming back for me_  
>  _Cause she's already gone_  
>  _But you will not tell me that_  
>  _Cause you know it hurts me every time you say it_  
>  _And you know you're doing the right thing_  
>  _You must know you're doing the right thing_


	12. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from The xx's song of the same name, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLkxUhNDRE0
> 
> If any of you were wondering, I'm avoiding including events directly from the game as main focuses of the story's chapters because I want to create something new and different, and as all of you are familiar with the events of the game, I wanted to create as much of my own original storyline as I could. The game's events are still happening all around them, and Hank and Connor are going on those missions, I'm just not focusing on them, and instead am creating new ones for this story. I'm also merging some things here and there for better flow.
> 
> A little nod of dialogue to the _Great Gatsby_ is also hidden in the chapter, as the title song is from the 2013 movie, and I thought that it fit really well.

J A N U A R Y 15th, 2 0 3 9 

“You seem different.”

“Different?” Anna asked curiously, scrunching her nose up cutely at the word, at the insinuation. “In what way?”

It was early in the morning, Saturday, the fifteenth, and Connor and her were set out on her bedroom floor, paints and brushes all around them as they worked on painting tiny little birdhouses, each about six-by-three inches.

Both of them had a cup of water each, and also a mug of coffee right nearby. At one point, Anna had accidentally drank her own paint water, which Connor had admittedly laughed way too hard at – until he stuck his paintbrush in his coffee, and then it wasn’t as funny anymore.

“I’m not sure, exactly.” He spoke softly, thinking carefully about the vibe that he was getting from her, which felt more mature, if he were to describe it somehow. “You just seem…more…open?”

She smiled at the prospect, holding her paintbrush up to the little birdhouse in front of her on the floor, and asked amusedly, “Is that a question?”

He twisted his mouth to the side in consideration of this, saying, “Well, sort of. You just seem less reserved, is all.”

A slight smile formed on the side of her face, a bit sly, still focused on her birdhouse, and then she said, “Maybe I’m just better at hiding my secrets now.”

Both of them were sitting crisscrossed on her bedroom rug, one of those shaggy ones, which Connor was worried about because her rug was white, but she said that they could just wash it if they got any paint on it, which was like blasphemy to him. She would rather ask for forgiveness than to ask permission, would rather do the thing and deal with the consequences, than to consider every negative possibility before starting.

When he asked her how she was comfortable doing something like that, she’d said, _“If I micromanaged every little thing, I’d never get anything done. Sometimes, you just have to be a little messy.”_

Or, he wondered if maybe he was digging too deeply into this and assuming things about her character based solely on her not caring if he dripped paint on her rug. That may also be true. 

He thought about her answer, about how she’d said that maybe she was better at hiding her secrets now, and he asked curiously, “What do you mean?”

She swiped her brush from left to right on the wooden roof of her little house, blending two colors together in a gradient, and said, “Maybe I’m not more confident. Maybe I’m just better at faking it.” 

She had arrived back the previous night, on Friday, and despite the late hour, had seemed so very invigorated in a way. Not in a way in which she had more energy, no…it was instead in a way as though she had become more hopeful, more optimistic, and nothing seemed to be able to dampen her spirit.

Connor thought that perhaps visiting with her mother had given her this feeling, that Anna felt comfortable after having spent time socializing with someone other than himself or Hank.

“So, what did _you_ get up to while I was gone?” She asked, changing the subject off of herself and looking up at him with a smile.

“Work, mostly.” He said. “Hank and I also spent a lot of time together.”

“Oh!” She exclaimed, putting her paintbrush down in her cup, suddenly excited at whatever she must’ve thought of. “Speaking of work. Did you see the news this morning?”

Lowering his own paintbrush, he shook his head, and said, “No, I didn’t. What happened?”

“Some people broke into the library and stole a bunch of books and documents from the archives.”

“But, what does that have to do with my work?”

“They were _androids.”_

If they were androids, Connor thought, he hoped to God that they weren’t the ones he saw going inside of the building when he'd walked out. To know that he could’ve stopped them, but he _chose_ not to, he wasn’t sure if he could live with that decision, knowing now that they might’ve been the ones who'd done this.

 _Hoping to God_ …that was a strange thought, and one he wasn’t quite sure he understood how he could possibly be feeling. This was the first time that he’d ever had a thought like that, a deep, anxious hope of being protected by some greater good. He didn’t know what he believed, because his life had always been defined by fact, not faith…but, now, it was a lot different. And he was slowly beginning to question things that he’d never thought of before. Like somewhere, deep inside, he hoped that somewhere out there, somebody was looking out for him, and that in the smallest of ways, maybe they were helping him, possibly even guiding him down the right path.

Connor kept looking at her sitting across from him, letting this information sink in. She had returned back to painting, and hadn’t seemed to notice that what she’d said had shaken him so.

He wanted to confide in her and tell her that he had been there that day at the library, and seen those deviants, but…he couldn’t. Because he was afraid to implicate himself in what possibly could’ve been inadvertent assistance to the crime, because he’d stood by, and let those androids go, when he could’ve stopped them. He knew deep down that she would understand, and not judge him for his decision, but he still feared being honest like that, allowing himself to be open to vulnerability.

So, he kept it to himself.

Anna was painting the wood of her little birdhouse in different types of purple, from a light lilac to a dark violet, mixing the colors in a shaded gradient.

Connor, different from Anna, painted his uniformly like a little house, with white walls, and a light blue roof, then adding a small red door, and some windows outlined with black.

Hers looked like the trancey dreamworld version of his, as if through the looking glass, into Wonderland.

He looked over at hers for a moment, as if for creative guidance, and he found himself wondering how she so easily was able to not mind if what she created was a little messy. She hadn’t painted hers like a real house, instead opting to make it more avant-garde like, which he himself would’ve struggled with because he didn’t like painting outside the metaphorical lines of what he was “supposed” to.

Studying her quietly, he watched as she carefully mixed her colors to create more shades of purple, and tried to take in the skillful way in which she went about it all.

“Have we ever met before?” He asked suddenly, and she lowered her brush from the house and looked up at him curiously to find that he was already looking at her.

She shook her head lightly and said, “Why do you ask?”

“I just…feel like I _know_ you, somehow.” He said, and he wasn’t all that sure himself why he had even brought it up at all.

It was the strangest sort of feeling, like he knew her _without_ knowing her. Like he was having déjà vu for the moment he was living in _right now._

They both sort of dropped the subject quickly, as it wasn’t really meant as more than just a topic to be glazed over, and she held her birdhouse up in the palm of her hand to look at it in better light.

“Yours is so much better than mine.” Connor said, watching her as she held it up in the air before them.

“What?” She said dramatically. “Don’t say that, Connor. I love yours. You painted it perfectly.”

“Perfect isn’t so special.” He said dejectedly, looking back down at his own, which was painted picture-perfect, with nary a stray brushstroke in sight.

“Maybe it can be.” She said, and he looked back up at her again, brow furrowed in question.

“Why?” He asked, and she smiled, still inspecting her own work.

“Because it’s _you.”_

Once they finished their birdhouses, they sat them out to dry in her windowsill, tiny and cute like those little dancing sunflower toys that teachers keep, and then set off to the kitchen to pack a picnic brunch.

They put together everything that they wanted to bring – bread, fruit, chocolate, cheese, wine – and then folded up a little blanket and put that on top on the basket. They also grabbed a few pillows and some more blankets.

By 2038, there was a new kind of public building called a Sky-Box, which was a large, open place that you could go to that would simulate different seasons, so that in the winter, you could go inside of this building, and it would seem like it was Spring, or Summer, or Fall. Whatever season and place you chose, that’s what the room would look and feel like. It was set up sort of like a theatre, where you would pay a small fee for a little room, and then you would choose which place you wanted, say a summer in Italy, and that room would then create an Italian summer simulation for you to hang out in, with orchards of apricot trees, fields of wheat, and the smell of freshly cut grass in the warm breezes of the season. It was virtual reality brought to life.

Once they’d gathered everything they needed, they said goodbye to Hank, who they’d invited to join them – he declined, insisting that he didn’t want to impose (he actually had said: “You don’t need some old man hanging around you and dragging you down.”) –  and set off for the day, going in Hank’s car to drive to the building.

Along the way, they chattered about a lot of different little topics here and there – like the things that Anna had done in Ohio, or the way that Connor drove so flawlessly.

When they arrived, they brought all of their stuff in, paid for a room, and when they got inside, they flipped through the little panel on the wall that controlled the weather, season, and location, and ultimately settled on autumn in France, with just enough sunshine as to be warm, but still hidden behind clouds which teased that rain might be coming.

Before them, an isolated little grassy area near a river formed, with the sounds of rushing water immediately filling their ears with its crispness, and filling their eyes with the smooth, glassy clarity of the water. They were in a little alcove, of sorts, with a field behind them, up a hill, and orangey trees all around, slowly losing their leaves in the season. It was a private little place, just for them, and a perfect hideaway from the world.

The trees cupped them on both sides, making it so that they were shielded from the left and right by foliage, and from the back by the slow incline of the hill which led up and away from the river. Chords of soft lightfiltered down from above, through the trees, bathing the grass below in a golden glimmer.

Anna unfolded and then spread out the blanket on the grass, a good few feet away from the river’s edge, and then both her and Connor laid out all of their other things, their pillows and such.

When they were satisfied, they both sat down on the blanket, her laying on her stomach, and him sitting crisscrossed next to her, a pillow in his lap for comfort, something to fidget his hands with.

They ate what they had brought, and talked about any and everything for a little while, relaxing in the cool breezes of the air around them, which mixed with the warming tones of the sun, a delight they hadn’t seen much of in this Detroit winter season.

After a little while, Connor asked, while chewing thoughtfully on a piece of sliced apple, “What do you do when I’m not around?”

She took a sip of wine from her glass and said, “Oh, I do lots of things.”

“Like what?” He asked, and she smiled.

“Things that are…exceptionally ordinary, I think.”

She seemed a bit sleepy, and, knowing that she had just flown in late last night, and had had very little sleep the night before – because they had stayed up all night talking – he wasn’t surprised to see that her eyes were slowly drifting closed, and that her tone was wistful and dreamy.

He drank from his own glass, thinking about her response, and then looked out over the river, which was a good few hundred feet across, and stared deep into the forest on the opposite side, which felt peaceful and beautiful in its mystery. This was may not have been real, but it certainly simulated reality in every single intrigue it posed. And he wanted to _know_ what was over there.

“I take classes up at CCS [College for Creative Studies].” She said, looking up at him from her place still lain on her stomach, arms crossed overtop a pillow, which she was then laying her cheek against.

“You do?” He asked, never having known this about her.

She smiled and said, “I’m not with you all the time, you know.”

He shook his head and said, “I just meant, you never told me.”

She shrugged lightly at this, and said, “You never asked.”

For a moment, Connor paused to listen to the sound of ducks in the water nearby quacking softly as they padded through the river, and then on their way further past this little alcove.

He let out a small _Hmm_ , and then asked her, “What else?”

“When I’m not at school, I work on my art a lot,” She said, then let out a slow yawn. “Or I read – I _love_ reading. I take walks around the city, too, though I don’t really like to go to a lot of places where there are many people.”

He nodded while she spoke, taking in her answer and considering it while she told him.

“I’m not sure how I feel about crowds, honestly.” She said, unfolding her arms from beneath her head and then putting them on the ground beside her, where she then pushed up into a sort of cobra pose, stretching her back. “I can’t decide if it’s more intimate to be in a large one or a small one.”

“Why is that?” He asked, and then she sat up fully, matching his crisscrossed position across from him, and she reached down to grab a cherry from the basket, popping it into her mouth.

“When you’re in a small crowd,” She explained, chewing slowly while she spoke. “There’s nowhere to hide…but, you also have less anxiety of many people being around you. In a large crowd, you can hide yourself, and become no one…but you also are surrounded by a lot of people, which can be overwhelming. It’s complicated, and there are a lot of different ways to look at it.”

“I’d never thought of it like that.” Connor said, and she looked down at the cherry stem in her hands, fingering over it and tying it in on itself.

“I guess if I had to choose,” She said, and then paused to think. “I would say…I like small crowds, if only so that there is not a lot of noise. I like the quiet.”

After that, Connor began to feel a bit drained himself, tired even, and he lay back on the pillows they brought, right hand behind his head. She came over next to him and lay on her stomach again, on his left side, pressed right up against him, her left leg almost lain on top of his.

From beside the picnic blanket, she picked little flowers from the grass and set them in front of her, where she absentmindedly played around with them while they spoke.

“What’s your favorite fruit?” She asked, looking to her left at him, waiting for an answer.

He considered this for a moment and then decided, “Peach.”

“You’re a peach.” She said, and leaned into him with her shoulder.

He looked at her for a moment in the after-effect of her joke, and, holding a straight face, said, “That was corny.”

“Was it?” She asked, smiling shyly at him, and then she looked back down at her flowers.

Absentmindedly, he toyed with the coin that he kept with him, and she peered over, a little amused smile on her face, as she watched him from beside as he played with it.

“Do you think you could show me how to do that, sometime?” She asked shyly, and he kept rolling it across his knuckles.

“Yes, definitely.” He said, and he liked the idea of it. She seemed happy with his answer, and then looked back down at her flowers again.

He liked the idea of having something to look forward to, of having a promise to show her this, and it made him glad that he had her to spend time with, somebody who he could share these little things with, as a nice distraction from work.

He fumbled a little with his coin, becoming distracted by his thoughts, and he stopped fidgeting with it and then repocketed it into his jeans.

He turned his head to look over at her, and asked unsurely, “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Of course,” She said, not looking over at him, though he knew she was listening. “Anything.”

“What’s the difference between love and lust?”

“Love lasts a little longer, I think.”

He let out a small sound to let her know that he’d heard her answer, and then he thought about it for a minute or so. They quietly remained there while he considered it, her still picking at those flowers, and then he asked, “Have _you_ ever been in love?”

“I’m not really sure.” She admitted. “Have you?”

He bit his bottom lip anxiously at this, and said, “I don’t think I should say if I have. Because it’s not appropriate.”

She looked up at him when he said that, and then asked, “Why do you think it’s not appropriate? If you didn’t want me to ask, you should’ve just said no. Now I’m curious.”

“Because I’m afraid to say that it’s you.”

" _Connor,_ ” She let out a tired sigh with his name. “We talked about this.”

“I know,” He said quietly. “But I don’t understand. How will loving myself make it any easier to love you?”

“Because I want you to be happy with who _you_ are, all on your own." She said. "I don’t want you to use me as your only source of happiness, because if you do that, then what will happen when I’m gone?”

“Why?” He asked quickly, a bit anxious at her question. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. It was hypothetical.” She said, smiling and putting her hand out and over his to reassure him. “But, that isn’t the point. The point is that you shouldn’t put all your eggs in one basket." She gestured to herself. "Because if that basket falls, you’ve lost everything. Cut yourself some slack, and give yourself room to grow. I’ll still be here when you’re ready to love me, and we’ll know when it’s right.”

He took in her words and tossed them around in his head, and although they weren't what he'd wanted to hear, necessarily, he knew deep down that she was right.

“What about you?" He asked curiously. "You haven’t said how you feel?”

She pursed her lips in thought, and then answered with, “Maybe I say it because I need to hear it, too. I need to know that I’m a whole person, all on my own. And that I’m worth everything that I am, and that I’m not defined by the things that I lack.”

“Is that how you really feel?” He asked, and she nodded.

“I don’t know who I am," She said. "Because who I am is somebody who’s always been defined by what other people made me into. I became who I thought they wanted me to be so that I could survive. But, it wasn’t really me.”

Connor nodded at this, and she went back to thumbing around with those flowers, less convicted this time in her focus on them, as his constant probing her for difficult answers had probably left her with a lot more to think about in their silence.

“Is Hank okay that we’re…together?” Connor asked tentatively, looking to her for hopeful validation.

“He talks to me about it sometimes," She said with a slight shrug. "But…he’s a private guy, so, not that often.”

“What does he say?” Connor asked, and she smiled, looking over at him.

“Just that he’s glad it’s you.” She said, and Connor furrowed his brow in surprise.

“He said that?” He asked, and she nodded.

“He really cares about you, Connor. Really respects you.”

Connor couldn't believe that she'd just said that, and that those words had really come from her lips, and she seemed to have truly meant it. 

Hank never really let on how he felt, instead letting his actions speak louder than any words of confession he could ever say, yet even then, his actions were typically quiet and unassuming, leaving Connor to always wonder where he stood.

He liked hearing this, though, and it left a warmth in his heart that eased some worries.

“And what about lust?” Connor asked, thinking back to their previous topic.

“Sure," She said. "I’ve felt that way before. What about you?”

He felt a bit awkward, now suddenly not sure if he wanted to have this discussion, and then said, “Can androids really feel _that_ way?”

“What? _Horny?”_ She asked teasingly, purposely choosing that word because of its connotations, trying to lighten the mood. He blushed a light pink, and his face felt warm.

“I…wouldn’t have said it like that," He admitted shyly. "But, yes.”

“Why, have you?” She asked, pushing into his shoulder teasingly. “Felt horny?”

“Is it bad?” He asked worriedly. “To feel that way?”

“Not bad at all." She said, smiling knowingly. "It’s good to get a little blood flowing down there. Oh, excuse me, to get a little _thirium_ flowing down there.”

Though she seemed jovial and totally fine to talk about this, he himself felt awkward and shy about all of it, and even though they were _technically_ dating, he wasn't sure if these were okay things to talk about yet, it being so early in their relationship, and given that he had never in his life talked about anything of the sort.

“Have you ever jerked off?”

“ _Anna_!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” She said, popping another cherry into her mouth. “You _were_ the one who brought it up in the first place.”

She rolled over onto her back and spread her arms out around her, looking up at the sky.

“Masturbating is normal, Connor. And if anybody tells you it’s wrong, they’re lying to themselves.”

“But, I’m an android." He said awkwardly. "I’m not supposed to want _that.”_

“But you do.”

“Well, I… _yes._ But, that – ”

She rolled back over onto her stomach and cut him off, saying, “You say that androids aren’t supposed to want that, but you’re an android, and you do. So, it follows that androids _can_ want sex, just as much as anybody else. A plus B equals C. You’re an android, and you want sex, so, androids can want sex. It’s not a bad thing.”

He looked at her for a moment, lips parted and a bit dumbfounded, and then asked, “How are you so open to talk about all of this?”

“Mostly I open up to try and get _you_ to open up." She said, giving a soft smile. "I don’t have any reason to avoid the topics, because I know they’ll come up eventually anyway. I want to help you help yourself, and I’m trying to do what I can.”

She lay her chin on his chest and looked up at his face, then reached her left hand up to dust her fingers lightly over the line of his jaw.

“I’m not this open with anybody but you.” She said quietly, giving him a shy smile. “I don’t know what makes me feel like this, but when I’m around you, I feel comfortable talking openly like this.”

He settled into her touch, reveling in the feeling of their closeness, and he closed his eyes, allowing her the freedom to explore the skin of his face and neck, focusing on how she made him feel being so close like this.

 _"Connor,”_ She said, suddenly taking on a theatrically serious tone. She sat up and threw her right hand up to her chest dramatically. “Were you in _my_ bed when you did it?”

He opened his eyes at this and visibly cringed, his cheeks turning redder at her question, and he covered his face with his hands, which she giggled at.

“Oh…tsk tsk, Connor. For shame.” She said teasingly, tapping her pointer fingers together as if to scold him. “Now what am I _ever_ going do with you?”

He peaked at her through his fingers and she was still smiling at him, so he assumed that she wasn't really upset with him at all, and so he lowered them away, letting her see the warmth of his cheeks. 

In a change of tone, and a breath of light, she reached up her right hand to his cheek and ran her hand down it, looking at him with all the love and hope it the world.

"I'm glad to have met you, Connor." She said, and he felt his breath hitch, like time stopped there, and she leaned down to place a chaste kiss onto his cheek, holding his face in both of her hands, and then left a small kiss on his lips before running her right hand through his hair, gently pulling on his brown locks, and then letting go.

She settled back into his side and cuddled up to him, placing her left hand onto his chest, over his heart, and she seemed to be listening to the beating of it, with her ear pressed against him. 

Along his body, she traced in random shapes, and the lightness of her touch was a bit ticklish, but a good kind, and he liked the way it felt.

“Did it feel good?”

 _“Anna…”_  

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I’ll stop teasing you. I promise.” She said, and then held up her left hand, pinky raised, as if for promising. 

He looked at her pinky for a moment, considering her offer, but she was looking at him so sugary sweetly that he just couldn't _not_ do it. So he met hers with his own, and she smiled so brightly at that.

“But did it?” She asked, still grinning, and she bit her bottom lip. He groaned.

“Do I _have_ to say?”

“You don’t _have_ to," She said, tilting her head from side to side. "But…I think it’d be pretty hot to think of you like that.”

“Then…it felt _really_ good.”

“Did you think about me?”

“Is that bad?” He asked, and she pretended to be deep in thought about it, stroking her chin for a moment as if considering it.

“Hmm…depends on what you thought about.” She said, and once she saw the worried look on his face, she smiled and dropped the act, reaching up her left hand to gently touch his cheek. “You don’t have to tell me, I just hope it was good things.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” He asked, and she nuzzled her head against his chest, putting her left arm all the way across him to hold onto him like a body pillow.

“I’m honored.”

They lay there quietly for a long time after that, basking in the warmth of the sun, and feeling one another's loving embrace, taking it in and breathing it back out again. If he could stay here forever, he would. But he knew that eventually, they'd have to get up, and go back out into the cold of winter, leaving this secret place behind.

Anna sat up suddenly, as if something bad had crossed her mind and caused her mood to change in an instant. She looked out across the waters of the river, staring out at them with some sort of indefinite determination that Connor had never seen in her. Like she was lost again, missing in just a matter of seconds.

When she spoke next, her voice was so very quiet, so hesitant and vaguely desperate. She asked him, "Do you think you'll ever want children, Connor?"

"I can't have children." He said, and she nodded to herself, not looking at him.

She pulled her lips into her mouth in thought, then let them out again. "I think that I would like to have a girl." She said, gazing out over those running waters like she could see what was on the other side, like somehow, she knew. He matched her gaze of direction, yet he saw nothing.

"And I hope she'll be a fool." She continued, her tone wistful with some sadness that Connor had never known. "That's the best thing a girl in this world can be. A beautiful, little fool."

She stood up then, and walked over to the edge of the water, kneeling down beside it and putting her hand out into the water, feeling it pass over her skin as if reminding her that she was alive.

"All the bright, precious things fade so fast." She said, eyes closed now, her voice wavering. "And they don't come back."

* * * * *

Unsurprisingly, later that same day, Hank and Connor had ended up being called to the library, which was now closed off as it was _technically_ now a crime scene. Since it had been androids who had broken in and stolen the books, Hank and Connor were the ones mainly assigned to the investigation of the building, and what had happened.

At around seven o’clock in the evening, they sat in Hank’s car, parked in front of the library, with rain pouring down the windows as it stormed outside, shuttering on the outside of the vehicle like little bullets.

“Hank, why did you never remarry?” Connor asked as Hank made notes in his little pad while he sat in the driver’s seat.

They were prolonging getting out, as neither of them were ready to go out into the rain.

“Never found the right person, I guess.” Hank said with a shrug, not nearly as invested in this conversation as Connor.

“Did you date at all?” He asked curiously, trying to get to know his partner a little better.

“Not really.”

Connor was disappointed that Hank didn't seem in the mood to talk, so he tried to keep asking questions.

“Would you like to?” He asked, and Hank dropped the notepad down onto his lap, still holding it in his hands, and looked over at Connor.

“What is this, _the Dating Game?”_ He asked, equal parts irritated at the pestering and also humorously jovial.

“I was only curious, is all." Connor said, nodding his head awkwardly. "I apologize for being _annoying.”_

Hank sighed and said, “It’s alright, I’d just rather not discuss my intimate life with you, Connor. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“I don’t ask you about your business with Anna. So, if you could kindly unstick your foot from my ass,” He said jokingly, holding up his right hand as if to tell Connor to back off. “I’d really appreciate it.”

“You _could_ ask me anything, though.” Connor said, metaphorically opening himself up like a book. “She is _your_ daughter, after all. I wouldn’t want to offend.”

In a way, he was being genuine, but at the same time, he was admittedly trying to push Hank’s buttons a little bit, to try and cheer him up, as he seemed a bit distant tonight, like something was a matter.

“Yeah, well. Before she’s my daughter, she’s a person.” Hank said considerately, seeming to choose his words with thought and consideration, decidedly level-headed for someone so out of it. “So, it isn’t up to me what she does, or who she’s with. She can make her own choices, and I respect that, because I respect her.”

“So, you wouldn’t want to know if we were intimate?”

“No, Connor, I wouldn’t.”

“Would it bother you if we were?”

“Are you _trying_ to irritate me?”

“A little.”

“Look.” Hank said, left hand still holding his pen, and he turned to Connor and used his right hand to gesture while he was talking. “Whatever you two do, it’s your private business, and I don’t give a rat’s ass if she makes you dress up in a leather suit and – you know what, I’m not even gonna finish that sentence, because you’re startin’ to piss me off, and I’m gonna throw up in my mouth a little just thinking about it. Okay? I’m gettin’ out of the car now.”

At that, Hank did just that, quickly opening up his car door and climbing out of the vehicle, spreading out an umbrella over his head as he did so.

Connor leaned over in his seat, and called out the door before it closed, “Lieutenant!” But then Hank slammed the door shut behind him, and Connor was left in the car by himself.

Unbuckling himself hastily, Connor got out of the car, too, closing the door behind him with greater care for the vehicle than Hank had given.

Catching up with his parter, Connor aligned himself right beside the older man, joining him beneath the umbrella as they stood together in front of the Library.

Returning to this place at night, and under these crime scene circumstances, was a drastically different experience than Connor had had earlier in the week when he’d come here to read.

The outside of the building, with its renaissance architecture, once was breathtaking in a divine sort of way. It was as if you just knew that amazing things could happen here, that anything was possible.

But now, it was an overwhelming mass of eeriness, backdropped by the barren trees of winter, which would occasionally be illuminated by a sudden strike of lightning.

It was one of those moments where you would expect to gaze up to one of the windows, only to find that someone else was gazing back.

A handful of cop cars were parked outside, with no sirens, thankfully, though a few of them still had their lights on, which were reflecting red and blue onto the white on the marbled building, like light reflecting off of water in the inside of a cave.

Written above the entrance, carved into the stonework, it read “KNOWLEDGE IS POWER,” beside two eagles, one on each side. Connor looked up at it as they entered, and he stopped momentarily to stare at those words, as if seeing them again for the very first time, though he’d looked at them every time he’d entered the library.

Hank stopped when he realized that Connor wasn’t following him, and he turned back to see what had gotten the younger man caught up.

“You coming, Connor?” He asked, one hand in his pocket to protect from the cold, the other still wrapped around the handle of the umbrella. His breath came out in little warmed puffs into the crisp air.

Still looking up, Connor felt a bit lost, and without looking at Hank, said quietly, “Yes…Lieutenant. I’m coming.”

Taking a few steps forward, he took a last look up at it, and then turned his head back down and followed behind Hank as they headed into the building.

Inside, most of the main lights were turned off, as the power had been cut by the deviants who had broken in. Floodlights had been brought it, and were ominously lighting the way for Connor and Hank as they walked into the main area of the building.

They met up with Officer Collins for a briefing on what had gone on, who was a shortly, older man, round and trustworthy looking. Hank greeted the other man and then asked him what had gone on. Connor lingered behind them, trying not to take up more space than he was allotted.

“They came in a few days ago and didn’t take anything.” Collins said, his first name Ben. “So, we think they must’ve just been casing the place. Then, this morning, they broke in and stole all the books, and obviously,” He gestured up to the ceiling, where none of the lights were working. “They cut the power.”

Hank nodded, looking all around them at the wide open spaces of nothing which surrounded them. A good twenty or so other officers were here, standing around and parting into groups to search the building.

Ben pointed to somebody standing nearby, leaning against a banister, and said, “Gavin’s over there, he’s coming with you.”

“Ah, perfect." Hank muttered under his breath. "Just what I need.” 

They parted from Officer Collins then, and walked over to the other detective standing by the wall, who turned to look at them as they approached.

“Gavin,” Hank said, acknowledging him with a vague nod of his head.

“Hank,” The younger man said back, looking him up and down and pursing his lips. “Still a raging drunk?”

Hank snorted humorously, then retorted with, “Still an insufferable prick?”

Gavin put up his hands as if in surrender, and said, with vague humor, “Alright, alright. I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

He looked behind Hank at Connor, who was awkwardly lingering a little bit behind him, kind of hiding behind his partner for protection. Connor was worried momentarily that Gavin was going to say something to him, as the younger detective had always seemed to have an incredible distaste for him – though, surprisingly, he didn’t say anything at all. He gave Connor a look as though he were thinking to engage him, but then bit his tongue and showed restraint that Connor had never seen in Gavin.

Instead of insulting him, or ignoring him entirely, Gavin said, _“Connor,”_  quietly, and then nodded his head at him, acknowledged his being there with them, almost as equals. It was a far cry from how the man had treated him months before when he had first come to the police department.

So, together, the three of them headed further into the library, first making their way to the grand staircase, and up into the upper levels of the building.

As the walked, all of them stared up at those incredible murals on the walls, watching them as they went about on their investigation, silently judging them without words.

Connor couldn't bare to look at them like this, to feel their assuming eyes ripping a hole in his entire being with the way they dwarfed him in importance, as if they knew all the answers. Where before, he had seen this as wisdom, now he saw it as prudence, judgement. Like he were being thrust before his makers, the ones who knew how it was going to end. 

Hank was a few paces ahead of him on the stairs, and Connor shook the thoughts from his mind and sped up a bit so that he could catch up with his partner. Gavin was ahead of Hank by a couple more steps, still looking around in astonishment.

“Lieutenant," Connor said, tilting his head questioningly. "One of the androids was the WK-400 from the Eden Club, the one we let escape from the woods.”

“I know, Connor.” Hank said, and then sort of patted Connor on the back as if for reassurance, to let Connor know that it was alright that they hadn’t caught that woman.

Connor wasn't sure what else to say, as he hadn't expected this sort of answer from Hank. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Hank to reprimand him for not doing his job, and for letting that deviant get away - but he never did. He thought that Hank would punish him for being bad at his job, blame him for his uselessness, and yet none of this happened. Hank seemed grateful that Connor had given up the chase, and Connor struggled with where that left him. 

He had placed his own self-preservation over the importance of the mission. And what that meant for him, he couldn't figure out.

Up the stairs now, they began to search through different rooms in the building, most of them entirely untouched, as they made their way to the android section, which was the main one hit.

Each of them held a flashlight in their hands, and Connor kept nervously shining it around at every little thing.

Connor looked all around them at the empty shelved halls of the library as he trailed closely behind Hank. On the walls, the tall, darkened windows were being run down by heavy water droplets from the rain, and, still thinking about the woman from the Eden Club, Connor asked curiously, “Have you ever rented a sex android, Hank?”

The sound of the rain crashed onto the roof above them, echoing throughout the large room, and in a way, it was peaceful. There was this comforting feeling of being inside this building during the storm, protected from the rain, and yet, it also felt claustrophobic, like they were trapped here, with nowhere to run if things turned sour.

Beside him, the older man scoffed humorously and said, “I’ve never even rented a sex _human_ before.”

Gavin laughed quietly at this for a moment as he peered around the area, surveying the shelves, but Connor hadn’t found it funny at all, instead gawking at Hank, and coming back with, “You know that would be prostitution, Hank. _Illegal.”_

“I was just making a joke, Connor.” Hank said, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “Apparently not a good one.”

“Are you going to be okay, Lieutenant?” Connor asked concernedly.

“I’ll be fine, Connor…just a headache.”

“What the hell did they even steal?” Gavin asked, interrupting them as he looked all around as if to see what was missing.

“Books.” Hank said, popping out the ‘B’ in the word, and then trailing out the ‘s’ for a little longer than necessary.

“Okay,” Gavin said, shaking his head dismissively at the joke. “But, what ‘books’ did they even take?

“They completely cleared the android sections.” Connor piped in. “As well as all of the android documentation from the archives in the basement. Whatever it was they were after, they must've been hoping to find it in those books specifically. Because they didn't touch anything else."

And so, the three of them traipsed slowly through the many lonely rooms and corridors of the library, the sounds of their footsteps and quiet breathing the only thing separating them from complete silence, save for the occasional comment here and there, usually Gavin saying something about the paintings on the walls, or the craftsmanship of the building. He was surprisingly decent to be around, if you could look past his initial front of bitter distaste for anybody whom he wanted to pick a fight with. 

Everywhere was cold. And everything was icy silence, stinging and ringing and lingering all around you like you were constantly being watched, and by what, you didn't know. Like you could never catch your breath because somebody had stolen it from you, taken it far away where you would never find it again. 

Those paintings, once godly, were now devilish, looking down on them like they were being judged in the court of the afterlife, their sins brought front and center for all the see, for all to witness.

Connor felt the unhappiest he had ever felt while walking through here, like he were standing in his own grave. And while nothing inherently _bad_ was happening, per se, he felt like every last little bit of happiness and joy in his life had been sucked right out of him, and now, he was running on empty. His reserves of life almost drained, and then, he'd be a walking corpse. A ghost.

Somewhere near the top floor, they approached a set of double doors, which had been shut closed, with no lights leading them in this direction. Hank and Gavin continued on down the hallway in the way that they were corralled to go to by the police floodlights, but Connor stopped. Right there. In front of those doors. Because somewhere inside of him, he felt like there was a thumping inside his head, inside his heart, like a drum that loomed and waned, beat on you like you'd never find relief. Like _Jumanji._

Hank noticed that Connor was no longer with them, and he stopped walking, turning back to look at Connor with a look of curious question, obviously wondering why he hadn't continued to follow them. 

Connor stayed staring up at those doors, and then he looked to Hank, as if to mentally tell him to walk back, to join him by those doors and ease his worry of what lay behind them.

At this, both Hank and Gavin returned back down the hall and stood by Connor's side, and Connor wondered if they, too, could feel the beating of their hearts all throughout their bodies, like a foreboding.

Connor didn't want to open those doors, and he could tell that the other two men with him could sense his unease. Gavin placed his left hand onto the handle of the door, and hesitated, looking down at it as if it were very cold, and then he looked back at them for confirmation that they were really going to go inside. Hank nodded his head, and then Gavin pushed the doors open.

Inside was another section of the library, a circular room, with rounded shelves of books, tiled floors and white stone walls. It was colder in that room that anywhere else, and there was a feeling of dampness in the air, from the rain. The windows in this room were open, and water was flooding in through them, drenching the floor. The sounds of crashing rain coming down from the sky was loud and booming, and yet, almost entirely washed out in the background by what they found in front of them.

“Oh, damn.”

Hanging from the ceiling, right in front of them, was a lifeless android wearing a dark suit, strung up by its ankle on a rope, its tie wrapped tightly around its neck like a noose, and on its right temple, an LED.

It was Connor.

Or at least, _a_ Connor. One of the few that the real Connor had left behind in his wake of death. One of the bodies that was represented by a headstone in his mind palace.

The three men approached the scene hesitantly, none of them knowing exactly what to make of it, or what to say.

“Looks like you’ve got friends.” Gavin said, grabbing the arm of the dead body and pushing it lightly, which made it swing. Though he had meant it as a joke, he was obviously too blown away himself to actually deliver the line successfully, instead sounding genuinely speechless by what he was looking at.

The rope trap was obviously made in reference to the way that Chris had gotten strung up in the woods weeks before, and because of this, Connor knew that the WK-400 had been behind this, as she was the one who had set the trap in the woods in the first place, and this was similar craftsmanship.

Connor was a frequent topic on the news in recent months, so it was no surprise that these androids knew about him, as his creation as the first detective android was a hot point of contingency in the social world, with many people divided down the middle on how they felt about his existence and the eventual mass marketing of his RK-800 model. His face was constantly plastered all over the news, and so the androids behind this obviously knew what he looked like.

Given the scene, these particular androids must not be so happy with the _“Deviant Hunter,”_ as he’d been so aptly nicknamed. Whether or not this was a threat of death, or just a warning, Connor wasn’t sure – maybe both. Warning him to back off and reconsider his place in this brewing war, but also threatening him to let him know that if he stayed where he was, they’d have no choice than to be his enemies.

They knew that he would be here.

Knew that he would see this.

Hoped that it would get to him.

And it had.

When he walked into this room, it was like all the bright and precious things faded away, leaving behind an emptied-out pit of all the terrible and evil hurt in the world. A loneliness that rang out like from the inside of a brass bowl, carrying waves of deep sound throughout Connor’s body in thick, immutable pain and fear.

Seeing this body hung lifelessly from the ceiling, in this room with walls decorated with angels and religious figures, it was like some strange crucifixion – though not exactly the same thing, of course, but…the connotations were undeniable. He may not have been nailed to a cross, but the implication behind the set up was so very suggestive of an unlawful execution.

Were they savages for this? Or were they brave?

Was he a martyr? Or a scapegoat?

Was he God? Or was he the Devil?

Wherever they had gotten this from, Connor didn’t know, but he had the terrible suspicion that this body may have been just dumped into some ditch or junkyard somewhere, and these other androids had found it, recognized him, and decided to use it against him.

The model was broken in multiple places, its arms and legs hanging strangely rag-dollish, with white skin exposed across various parts of it. There was also noticeable water damage done to it, though its metallic parts were unable to rust.

Connor walked over to it, stepping through the flooded puddles of the room, and checked the serial number on its jacket, recognizing it as the body he had been in when he’d died in the car, the car that had driven over the bridge and into the river, where he’d been abandoned. Someone must’ve gone back for him eventually, and then just tossed him to the wolves like garbage, with as much care as an old car being sent to an impound.

Standing face to face with himself, one of him upside down and from the ceiling, it was like a mirror. A strange, otherworldly mirror, a look into the past, at who he used to be. He wanted to reach up and touch the body, but wondered if perhaps that would cause some sort of problem, like how they always say that if you travel through time, you shouldn't go looking for yourself in the past or future, because two versions of you being in the same place could cause some chaotic rift in time.

Hank seemed concerned for him, as the older man hadn’t said anything since they’d walked in, and was sort of lingering speechlessly at Connor’s side, unsure what to say to him about this. Even Gavin wasn’t saying much, because despite his dislike for Connor, he still seemed put-off by this scene, and must’ve felt, to some degree, sympathy for his android coworker.

Connor sucked it up, though, and pulled himself together, hiding his vulnerability and terror behind a thick shell, and then saying firmly, “Let’s go.”

“You okay with all this?” Hank asked awkwardly, pointing vaguely up at the old Connor model, seeming unable to look up at it himself, as the scene was quite gruesome, considering the fact that Connor looked entirely human.

“I don’t care.” Connor said bluntly, though he knew that he was lying.

He couldn’t let it show, couldn’t let them know how much this had instilled such a fear in him that he was visibly shaking. It was like getting a glimpse into hell, and being told that you were awaited, seeing into the future that one day, you would inevitably end up in.

One day, he would die, and they would stop replacing him. And he would have to face what death truly meant, just like everybody else.

Maybe his consciousness was transferred, but, he wasn’t truly the same Connor anymore. Every time he’s moved to a new body, a little bit of his memories are lost, and if our memories are what make us who we are, then maybe he wasn’t the same person anymore. Whoever that Connor was, hanging from the ceiling, that was a different man. And where that scared and terrified man – no, _boy_ – had gone, Connor didn’t know. And he didn’t want to find out.

Hank eyed him suspiciously, concernedly, waiting to see if Connor truly didn’t care as much as he claimed, but ultimately, the older lieutenant let it go, giving Connor a last look before turning to head out of the room.

Gavin was standing across from Connor, looking at him like he was seeing a ghost, lips parted slightly in silent wonder. They remained there for a few seconds while the other man stared at him, as if trying to understand what all of this meant.

And then, Connor turned, and exited the room, leaving Gavin speechless.

He closed the gates of hell, and walked in the other direction.

* * * * *

After they’d tied up their time at the library, Hank and Connor had driven out to the edge of the city and found a peak to park at, one which overlooked the city in a little alcove where cars could stay and see the cityscape from a slight distance, elevated just enough to be at an upward angle facing down at it.

Since it was the middle of winter, and so cold, no one else was up there except for them.

Hank sat on the roof of his car, beer in hand, and Connor stood nearby, leaning up against a shoddy wooden fence at the edge of the peak, two or so feet away from his partner. He had his hands on the wooden planks of the fence, and was looking out into the nighttime, at the stars and city lights, at the looming rain clouds slowly parting to reveal the moon, which was just shy of being full.

It had stopped raining a good half-hour prior, and now all that remained was the cold night air, and the vague remnants of wetness all around them, threatening to soak into their shoes from the dampened grass and gravel.

Connor had encouraged Hank to go home, or to at least drive somewhere warmer, but the older man had brushed him off and said that he didn’t want to.

There were so many times when Connor had bitten his tongue these past few months, looked the other way when Hank drank himself into nothing, ate his pain, and cried in silence. When Connor had seen the fading scars on each of Hank's wrists, cut vertically along his veins, long-since healed, Connor just swallowed back his concern and his absolute burning _need_ to say something.

He _never_ said anything.

And he let Hank get by unnoticed. Unspoken. These little secrets that the older man held so dear, clung to them like he'd rip apart at the seams if they were taken away.

And one day, he'd take them to the grave.

Unless someone stopped him.

“Hank…I really think that you should stop drinking.” Connor said, arms now wrapped around himself for warmth, as he still remained looking out over Detroit, at the city lights along the horizon, like another world. Another life.

He was slowly taking his chance here, unsteadily taking a few steps across the bridge between them that Hank could so easily set alight if he decided that Connor wasn't allowed to cross, wasn't allowed to see what was waiting on the other side.

From behind him, he heard a small scoff, and then Hank said, “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because you’re not yourself when you’re drunk.” Connor said, and though he had meant this helpfully, it likely came across as condescending. “It’s all fun and games, I understand, but if you get hurt, it won’t be so _fun_ to end up in the hospital. Won’t be such a game, then.”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business what I do, _Connor.”_ He said, and the younger man's name on his lips seemed to have illicited a bad taste in his mouth, like even the younger man's name was annoying.

Sensing Hank's determinedly bitter tone, and his seeming desire to keep Connor as far from his true self as possible, Connor turned to Hank, and asked, “How do you really feel about me?” 

Hank gawked at him, a bit angrily, as if this were a _very_ stupid question, as if the answer should be obvious.

 _“How do I really feel about you?”_ Hank spat out, repeated Connor's words and throwing them back at him almost like he were trying to let Connor hear how ridiculous he'd found them to be.

"Yes." Connor said simply, not understanding Hank's extreme anger at all of this.

Hank shook his head and said, “You want me to tell you? Oh, because I will _tell_ you.”

He let out a frustrated sigh and took a quick drink from his beer, and then used the hand holding the bottle to gesture to Connor while he spoke.

“Did you know, that every time I see you, I just think of _him_ , lying there on the pavement, bleeding out and crying, and I can’t do anything to save him?”

He took another drink.

“Did you know that every night when I go to sleep, I pray so hard that I won’t wake up in the morning? That the booze and the pills will finally do their job, and just let me go. Just let me fucking go.”

He stopped, looking away from Connor and gritting his teeth. He looked disheveled, exhausted, and so utterly, utterly, _destroyed_.

“Did you know that I’m _so_ terrified of losing you?" He said, and started getting choked up, his words wavering with desperation and sadness. "And that, every time we’re out somewhere, where you could just… _die_ , you don’t even care? It kills me, it fucking kills me to see how much you don’t give a shit about your own life.”

“Hank, I don’t see how any of this matters.” Connor said, arms still wrapped around himself from the cold. “We were talking about _you._ Not me."

Hank slammed his hand down angrily on the roof of the car and yelled, “Are you fucking daft? Of course, this has to do with you, Connor! Jesus Christ, it’s all about you! I’m nothing…and you look so much like him, god…you look so much like him.”

“So much like who?”

Hank ignored him, shaking his head like Connor had just said the worst thing he could say, as if he had just offended his partner beyond any other offense that could've been breached on. The older man stared at Connor with such a pain in his eyes that Connor couldn't tell if it was anger or fear, rage or terror - and he didn't know which was worse.

Hank slid off of the roof of the car, planting his boots into the snow and taking a few hard steps towards Connor, looking at him like maybe Connor was the sole reason behind all the pain and suffering in the world.

From the holster on his hip, seemingly on impulse, Hank wrapped his hands around his pistol and hastily whipped it up to Connor's forehead, an action which internally made Connor jump, but which visibly he tried to remain unfazed by. This was his facade, his taciturn shell that he built around himself, as he didn't want to provoke Hank any further by displaying an overreaction to what may simply have been the culmination of Hank's frustrations, which were understandable.

Hank pushed the gun lightly onto Connor's forehead, right in the middle, and then held it there, as if daring him to give him a reason to pull the trigger.

“What would happen, if I just killed you, right now?”

Connor said nothing, at first, and considered not saying anything at all, because truth be told, he wasn't exactly sure what the correct response was in this type of situation. Either he would come up with the right combination of words, and convince his partner to lower the gun - or, he would say the very worst thing he could say, and Hank could end it all, right here.

But there never would be an end, would there?

CyberLife would send another Connor.

And another.

And another.

Continuously replacing him until they ran the supply dry with how many times the RK-800 insisted of pursing death like it was his sole purpose for existing.

But maybe, maybe he was just born to die.

“Nothing would happen, Hank.” Connor said nonchalantly, with just a taste of bitterness, to provoke the man who held his life in his hands. "There would _be_ nothing."

“You’d just come right back, wouldn’t you?” Hank said harshly, pushing the gun more on Connor, increasing the pressure on his forehead.

Connor remained straight-faced, not showing any emotion, and in some way, he felt like maybe he wanted Hank to do it, like he wanted to instigate the man enough so that he would just pull that trigger, and end all of this. He'd come back again, sure, but a little piece of him died every time that happened, and deep down, he hoped that maybe if he died enough times, he'd be able to kill off all the parts of himself that he didn't like, and one day, he'd be someone entirely new, unrecognizable. Then, maybe, he could learn to live again. Or rather, for the very first time.

Considering what Hank had said, about coming right back, Connor said, _"_ In a way," without ever blinking or breaking his cold and harsh eye-contact with the man opposite him.

His tone was flat, almost mocking, and that only made Hank angrier, the man's grip tightening only that much stronger on the gun, tears beginning to slip past his cheeks.

And Connor closed his eyes, and waited for the end to come, just as he had so many times before.

 _Wanted_ it to come.

 _Begged_ for it to come.

 _Needed_ it to come.

He held his breath, and hoped that it would be his last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I know, to be there._   
>  _When and where, I'll be there._   
>  _You know, what's to be said._   
>  _We said out loud, we never said._
> 
> _My premonition of the world comes to me._  
>  _A sun in your hands from the middle life,_  
>  _Says I'm alright._
> 
> _You said you don't have to speak._  
>  _I can hear you._  
>  _I can't feel all the things you've ever felt before._  
>  _I said it's been a long time,_  
>  _Since someone looked at me that way._  
>  _It's like you knew me,_  
>  _And all the things I couldn't say._
> 
> _Together, to be._  
>  _Together, and be._  
>  _Together, to be._  
>  _Together, and be._


	13. The Same Deep Water as You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the Cure's song of the same name, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V35cxutR7gc
> 
> A number I typed in the story is registered by ao3 as a phone number, on mobile, but DO NOT click on it lol. It’s not a hyperlink. I can’t turn it off, I don’t think. Just don’t click on it because I think it might call the number if you do that.

J A N U A R Y 23rd, 2 0 3 9

He didn’t die.

But he wished he had.

There was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to start over. Nothing more that he wanted than to know if he could leave this life and come back the same as he left.

We may not get to choose the hand we are dealt, but we can choose how we go. And Connor holds that promise in his hands so tightly that he breaks it in his grip. It chokes him around his neck like an invisible hand, and he knows that at any time, he could just end it for himself.

He wants to choose his death before someone else chooses it for him.

He doesn’t want to be left behind. So he leaves first.

He destroys himself, if only to feel control.

And what is destruction if not a form of creation?

Now that he knew love, knew life, he wanted desperately to see what would happen if he died and was transferred to a new body, wondered if that would change who he was, change how he felt.

Hank had lowered the gun from Connor’s forehead, and left him be. Deep down, Connor knew that the older man would never do it, would never be desperate enough that he’d kill someone else. But, Connor had still hoped, hoped that he could close his eyes and open them into a new life.

Connor had calculated the probability of Hank shooting him to be somewhere around forty-eight percent, and Connor only wished that he could’ve made it higher. Wished that he could’ve come up with the specific combination of words that would’ve made Hank pull the trigger.

While they drove away from the peak, Hank said nothing to Connor, and in that silence, Connor re-ran the sequence of Hank holding that gun to his head, simulated it and repeated it over, and over again. He estimated that there were fifteen different combinations of words that would’ve made Hank do it, and yet, Connor had chosen none of them.

Hank dropped Connor off at CyberLife without a word, and Connor knew that in that moment, it went unspoken that Hank didn’t want Connor at his house right then. Connor stood outside the vehicle in the snow of the night, chilled and empty, and then the man drove off, and Connor watched him go, and wished then that he had known the words to make him stay.

To make him come back.

But it was too late to apologize.

After that day on the peak outside the city, Hank didn’t talk much to Connor. It’d been a week since then, now, and the older man had pulled farther away from his younger partner than he ever had before. Hank avoided him in the office, avoided him in his home whenever Connor came to see Anna, and even on missions, Hank opted instead to partner up with Officer Miller or even Gavin, just so that he didn’t have to be around Connor for any more than he absolutely had to.

Connor had never felt this way before. Ignored, avoided, like there was something wrong with him. He had finally felt what it meant to be wanted, to be cared for, and now he felt abandoned.

Hank was never rude or cruel to him during this time, just distant, and although Connor understood that it was Hank’s deteriorating mental state that caused these rifts between them, none of that meant that it hurt him any less. He understood it, but that didn’t mean that he had to like it.

After everything that had gone down in the library, Connor had been wracking his brain trying to come up with an explanation. He searched through all of their cases, trying to figure out if there was some connection between all of these deviants that they’d been following the past few months. Was this some flaw in their systems? Or were they connected, somehow?

Connor knew that with a team of androids with all of these books, they’d be bound to come up with some answers, as they could all work together to figure something out. It may take them a while, but knowing that they had all of this information at their fingertips unnerved him. Androids were not permitted to check out books from the library, and Connor was only allowed to do so because he had permission from work.

His running theory after thorough analysis was that those androids had stolen all of those books in some effort to find answers, just as he had himself when he’d gone to the library to read through them. Their methods of obtaining the information may have been unorthodox, but their intentions were in the same place. They stole everything on androids, their culture, their history – and they’d even taken all of the books from the Kamski section.

_Kamski._

If these androids had the possibility to reach some kind of truth that not even Connor had figured out yet, with all of this ra9 business that kept popping up in their investigations, then maybe he needed to go straight to the source. Kamski had left CyberLife ten years ago, but he still lived somewhat near the city, isolated up near Lake Huron, which would take them a few hours to reach from Detroit, give or take.

If Connor couldn’t find the answers himself in all the little pieces that they’d gathered, maybe he just needed to bite the bullet and look straight into the horse’s mouth for the truth.

It was a Sunday that they’d planned for, the twenty-third of January, and, much to Connor’s surprise, Hank had agreed to come with him on his trip up to Kamski’s place. Connor had originally banked on having to go alone, but for some reason, Hank seemed like he actually _wanted_ to go. And Connor wasn’t sure exactly why that was.

Before they’d left Hank’s house to drive to Kamski’s, Anna had come out of the house to where they stood by the car, and had asked them if she could come, too. And though Hank had initially seemed like he wasn’t so fond of this idea, he ultimately let her join them. Hank was being particularly quiet that day, and didn’t seem in the mood to turn it into a big discussion, so he just stepped aside and let her come.

Connor wasn’t sure what two hours in the car with them would be like, given the climate of his and Hank’s tense relationship at this point, but it was moderately decent. Connor rode in the back, with Anna, to give Hank some space, and the older man seemed appreciative that Connor had decided to not bother him any further. Anna and Connor spoke quietly to one another the whole way, talking about music and art, and pointing out different places that they saw out the window.

They watched as the city flowed to the country, losing the gray of the metropolis and gaining the white endlessness of the fields and farms they passed on their way. It was snowing lightly, just enough to add a touch of beautiful wonderland to everything, but not enough to cover the roads.

Every so often, Connor would catch Hank’s eyes in the rear-view mirror, and he thought that he’d seen a glimmer of a smile on the man’s face, watching them as they chattered gaily in the backseat. Music played lightly from the radio, of what, Connor didn’t think too deeply about, but he knew that it made him feel calm here, like everything would be okay.

Being with Anna reminded him that there was more to life than dying, more to this world than what he knew, and all he wanted was to feel this way forever. To feel the hope of love.

He placed his hand on hers, connecting her warmth to him, and hoping that some of it may travel into him.

And that’s when he saw, saw the thing he’d never seen before in her.

As she gazed out the window, the remnants of a smile on her face from laughing so much just prior, he looked down at their hands to see that his skin had retracted around the place of touch, revealing the white fingertips on his body underneath.

And so had hers.

* * * * *

Kamski stood there before the three of them, biting his bottom lip smugly, as if in careful consideration. He was standing on the other side of a long, indoor swimming pool, which was colored red by the walls of the inside of it, giving the impression of bloodied water. The three of them lingered awkwardly in the doorway to his poolroom, unsure what to do, exactly.

Kamski’s house android, named Chloe, had let them all in once they'd arrived, and they’d come to find that Kamski lived alone here, alongside multiple versions of the same ST-200 model, save for the very first Chloe, who was an RT-600.

Hank and Connor stood in front of Anna, who was kind of meandering slowly behind them, and keeping to herself.

“My greatest creation!” Kamski called to them, a bit too cheerfully, arms up in welcome and smiling brightly as they entered the room. His gaze then lingered on Connor, and his smile fell slightly. “…and _Connor.”_

Connor tilted his head at this, blinking a few times, and then continued walking into the room, sorting through the implication of that phrase in his head, as though Kamski’s greatest creation and Connor weren’t the same thing.

Connor and Hank crossed the room and stood right before Kamski, ready to talk with the man about their investigation. Anna lingered over by the edge of the pool, near two Chloe models hanging out in the water, her right hand held over her left elbow awkwardly.

Kamski looked at Hank and Connor and pursed his lips, though he said nothing to them. He looked from Connor to Hank, then back again, like he was thinking deeply about them, analyzing them. Past them, though, he stared deeply at Anna, where she stood about fifteen feet away. He walked away from Hank and Connor to approach her instead.

“The prodigal daughter,” He said, grinning smugly and holding his arms out again like a welcome. “Returned to me at last.”

Anna looked at him, yet remained perfectly still, her arms falling straight to her sides. She was breathing heavily and looking forwards, not making direct eye-contact with the man nearing her, who began circling her like a vulture. Kamski was on the shorter side, especially when compared to Hank and Connor, who were both over six-feet-tall, yet when he stood next to her, she seemed dwarfed by him.

Kamski reached out and ran his right hand down her face, stroking her skin, which she shied away from in distress, and then he held onto a piece of her hair, as if examining it. He let it drop, and then he turned his head back to Hank, who was still standing stunned next to Connor.

“What’d you name her?” Kamski asked, and Connor could hear Hank swallow heavily from beside him.

_“Anna.”_

Kamski nodded approvingly at this, then turned back to her.

“Anna,” He repeated the name, tasting it on his lips. “Hmph…it’s nice… _innocent_.” He placed his right hand back up to her face, running his fingertips down her cheek and then along her jaw. “And she’s a sweet girl, isn’t she? Beautiful, young, and always ready and waiting for you.”

Hank furrowed his brow and asked, “What are you talking about?”

“RK-1000.” Kamski said, still examining Anna’s body. “Eve Model, serial number 218 022 316 - 01.”

Anna didn’t move a muscle while she was touched and groped by this man, and she seemed to be holding her breath, just waiting for it to end.

Kamski brushed his thumb over her lips and then smirked, seeming smugly proud of himself that her cheeks were flushed from his touch.

“Designed to be the perfect partner, the perfect girlfriend, wife, lover. Whatever you want to use her for,” Kamski lightly brushed his hand over her throat, as if to simulate choking. “She’s all yours.”

Kamski turned to look at Hank and Connor briefly after he said this, as if teasing them while he explained. The man obviously wanted to elicit a reaction out of them.

“Biblically inspired, of course.” He explained, tugging on Anna’s clothes. “Even down to her serial number, which was named for Genesis 2:18, in which Eve was created. Made just for Adam.”

He walked around behind Anna and placed his hands on her shoulders, standing too close for comfort, and holding her as if she were on display. He looked at Hank again and smirked.

“And now,” He said, speaking directly to Hank. “Made just for you.”

“You’re disgusting.” Hank said, and Kamski seemed to find that funny.

“I prefer innovative.” He said. “I’m a business man, not a historian. I don’t give a shit about religion, that’s why I put all my stock into Scientology, because what is that if not the greatest business model of all time? I thought the Biblical references made it more… _erotic_. Because it’s taboo.”

He ran his hands sensually over the curve of her shoulders, then down her arms, with his head leaned in near her, almost looking like he was in the position to whisper something to her if he wanted. He ended his touch by landing his hands on her hips, digging his fingers into her skin and holding her body as close to him as he could.

“And who wouldn’t want to fuck their own personal Eve?”

His eyes flicked up to them after this statement, dark and heavy with eroticism, looking for a reaction in the two men standing across from them.

Hank seemed entirely speechless, and so Connor was the first one the speak up.

“There are already android companion models,” He said confusedly, shaking his head as he spoke. “Why make another one?”

“Ah…” Kamski said, pulling his hands back up to Anna’s shoulders. “Because this one’s better.”

Still standing behind her, he walked Anna closer to them, and moved her so that she would be right in front of Hank and Connor. Kamski ran his hand over Anna’s stomach, trailing his touch over the area.

“She’s the first android we’ve ever created that is fully capable of becoming pregnant, and bearing children. Human children, more or less.”

“More or less?” Hank asked.

“Well, human sperm _is_ compatible with her eggs. But, her eggs were created in a lab, and though they imitate that of a human woman, we can’t say for certain what effect that’ll have on a baby.”

Connor tried to catch her gaze, but she wasn't looking at anything. Her eyes were glazed over, like she was gone from this place. Dissociated.

“I figured we’d make a mint on her model." Kamski said. "For men who want wives, children – but can’t find a woman to be with.” He leaned his chin on top of her head, a disturbingly casual display of affection, given the circumstances. “And now they won’t have to. Because they can just go out and buy an Eve.”

“Why did you make her look so young?” Hank asked.

“I call it the Lolita Effect.” Kamski said, a smirk growing on his face. “Most men, though they won’t admit it, are attracted to young girls. And what better way to drive sales than to design her looking barely legal.”

He ran his hands over her waist and hips again, and she just stood there, doing absolutely nothing, and taking it.

Hank and Connor remained still where they stood, as well, neither of them capable of reasoning this entire situation.

Kamski pulled his hands back up to her shoulders, grabbing her hand and holding it up, as if examining it.

“You know what she can feel?” He asked, turning her arm over and inspecting her skin. “Different from all other androids?”

They both shook their heads, unable to speak, and Kamski still remained studying her hand, but when he spoke next, his eyes flicked back up to them again.

“Pure ecstasy.”

Anna took in a sharp breath, just small enough as to be imperceptible, and she closed her eyes, in a brace for impact sort of way. Though there was no impact coming. Just Kamski, and his hands all over her body.

“Have you been having fun with her, Hank?”

Kamski laughed lightly, and hugged Anna close to him, yet again with too much familiarity, and she basically rag-dolled in his arms, not reciprocating, but not fighting it either.

Hank said nothing at all.

“You’d be the first man – other than me – who’s ever gotten to meet her.” He said, still grinning. “She’s pretty incredible, isn’t she? So beautiful…” He said, brushing his hand down her cheek again. He lowered his voice slightly, and added, near her ear and almost just to her, “And _amazing_ in bed.”

Connor looked at Hank for an explanation, and he had no idea what to think. Everything felt like it was happening in a dream, like it wasn’t really real. Hank remained silent, and just stared, open-mouthed, at the scene before him.

He pulled mockingly at her braids, as if to say, _how cute_ , and then asked Hank another question with, “Or did you just want somebody to love you?”

Kamski turned his gaze to Connor, for the first time, and spoke humorously. “Don’t worry, Connor.” He said. “He hasn’t touched her, not even once. Hank’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Respectful, giving her space, treating her like a daughter. How… _admirable.”_

Hank turned to Connor at this and said quickly, “I _swear_ I didn’t know anything.”

Connor opened his mouth to speak, but found that he had nothing to say. And before he could think of anything, Kamski continued.

“I have a little…test.” He said, still holding on to Anna’s shoulders. “If you’ll indulge me.”

“Come on, we’re leaving.” Hank said firmly, looking at Kamski in disgust and bewilderment. He moved to walk away from them, but Connor remained glued to the spot, still staring at Kamski.

“What’s the test?” Connor asked, looking the man straight in the eyes. Kamski smirked at this. He had them right where he wanted them.

“It’s called Auditing.” Kamski explained. “I’ve sort of… _borrowed_ it from Scientology.”

He let go of Anna, and even with him gone, she remained perfectly still. Connor wasn’t sure what to do, if he should comfort her or give her space. She was breathing heavily and staring at the floor, like she was in shock or something. He wanted to reach out and help her, but he was afraid that doing so would only make things worse.

Kamski turned to walk behind them, over to two white armchairs near the huge ceiling-to-floor window which covered the entire wall. He pushed the two chairs so that they would be facing one another, with about a three-foot space in between, and then set another, smaller, wooden chair, right next to them, in the middle.

“Here,” He said, gesturing to both of the chairs. “Sit down, facing one another.”

He was referring just to Anna and Connor, and not to Hank, who was standing a few feet away, watching as this unfolded before him.

Connor looked at Anna, who was looking at the chairs, and then she looked up at him for a second, and she looked completely crestfallen in her eyes, like every last bit of hope that he’d known in her was gone. She was terrified, he could tell, and he’d never seen her like that before.

She only glanced at him briefly, and then looked away and moved to sit in one of the chairs, the one on the left. She sat down politely, pulling in on herself as if to take up as little space as possible. Connor stared at her for a moment, then looked back at Hank, who gave him a confused look. He looked back to the chairs, and then sat down hesitantly in the one opposite her.

From a nearby drawer, Kamski pulled out a small metal machine, which looked sort of like an answering machine with two sets of short, metal bars attached to it from cords. He placed the machine onto the floor in between the two white chairs, and then he sat down in the little wooden chair.

“Now,” He said. “In this process, I'm the auditor, and you two are what are called the 'preclears,' the participants. Right here, I’ve got this little machine, called an E-Meter, and what we do is…” He held up the two sets of metal bars. “Take these, both of you.”

Each of them accepted the bars, two each, and held one in each hand. They were the shape and size of a thin glass bottle, and fit almost perfectly in each hand. All fours wires on the bars ran back to the machine, like telephone cords.

Kamski continued.

“What I want to accomplish here is to have a tangible test for deviancy, based on questions and answers.” He said. “Something that could really get to the core of what deviants value, what they fear, what they love.”

He leaned down to the machine and flicked a button to turn it on, which let out a slow, quiet beep, and Connor could hear it rumbling softly through the floor as it hummed to life.

Kamski turned just to look at Anna, and said, “I know _you’re_ quite familiar with all of this…but, I’ll explain the rules for our new friend, Connor, here.”

Connor furrowed his brow at this, and looked at her for an explanation, but she was looking down at the bars in her hands, and remaining very still.

“Auditing is pretty simple.” Kamski said, leaning forward in his chair like he was very eager to start this. “Get the ‘preclears,’ that’s you two, through a simple test of questions and answers. ‘What turns it on will turn it off,’ and ‘the way out is the way through.’ In other words, I won’t let you out until you’ve gotten to where I want to get you.”

He reached down to gesture to the device on the floor in between them, and said, “Right here is what’s called an E-Meter, which is an electrodermal activity measurement device. It measures changes in the electrical resistance of the preclear by passing a small electrical current through your bodies by means of a pair of tin-plated tubes, like empty soup cans, attached to the meter by wires, and held by you two during auditing. These changes in electrical resistance are theorized to be a reliable and precise indication of changes in the reactive mind of the preclear.”

He tugged on one of the wires to make sure it was attached, and it was.

“There’s a little indicator here, with four settings. From left to right, we have: Low, Moderate, High, and Max. If you have a low reaction, in the yellow, then that means you've displayed very little emotional response to my question.” He pointed to the left side, the low side. “And if you’re in the red, you showed a very high emotional response.” And he pointed to the right side, the red side.

He picked the machine up off of the floor and set it in his lap, holding onto it with his hands and blocking the screen so that Anna and Connor couldn’t see, so that they wouldn’t know how their emotional responses were.

“Before we start,” Kamski said, squinting at the little device and turning some knobs on it. “I’d like you both to take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, and then let it out through your mouth.”

Quietly, both of them did so, and Connor felt a tad bit more relaxed after it, though he was still extremely tense.

“The auditor, that’s me,” Kamski said, pointing to himself. “Will ask you a question. It might be something along the lines of, ‘Recall a time when you felt an affinity for someone.’ If there’s a reaction on the E-meter, then that means your body and mind had an emotional reaction to it. A reaction only deviants are capable of.”

_Deviants._

This test might prove some kind of emotional fallacy in Connor that he didn’t even know he was capable of, and he wouldn’t even get to know about it, because only Kamski could see the screen. Connor swallowed thickly, and he squeezed onto the tubes in his hands tightly, trying to relieve tension.

“Are you ready to begin?”

They both nodded.

“Is there anything you’re upset about at the current time?” Kamski asked, still watching the screen intently to see if there was any change on the meter.

Connor thought for a moment about this, deciding whether to lie or to be truthful during the test, but then ultimately answered honestly with, “Yes.”

He couldn’t bear to look up at Anna, so he focused instead on his hands holding the metal bars, trying to stay focused and will himself not to show any emotional response. From in front of him, he heard Anna also quietly answer with, “Yes.”

Kamski continued.

“Have you done anything recently that you don’t want known?” He asked.

Connor answered, a bit too quickly, with, “Yes.”

Anna answered with, “Yes,” as well. She was breathing heavily, but trying not to let it be known, and Connor could hear the sound of her like she was the only noise in the room. The E-Meter beeped quietly every now and then, and it only made Connor’s heart beat that much faster.

“Have you ever killed another android?”

Connor balled his hands into fists, then relaxed them, and said, “Yes.”

Anna said, “No.”

Kamski turned just to Connor, and asked, “Did you enjoy killing them?”

Connor gritted his teeth, a vein popping out slightly on his neck, and he said, “No.”

Anna looked up at Connor then, meeting his eyes, and he felt like he was watching her dignity be torn from her, like this whole process was humiliating in some way, or triggering a traumatic memory.

“Have you ever had sex with another android?” Kamski asked, looking back down at the machine in his lap, biting his bottom lip in concentration as he watched the little needle move around on the meter.

“No.” Connor said. He had never had sex at all, with anyone.

But Anna answered with a quiet, “Yes.”  

Connor looked up at her, his lips parted slightly, and he let out a deep breath. She looked down to hide from his eyes.

He wasn’t mad. He was confused.

“Have you ever had sex with a human?”

“No.” Connor said, and yet again, Anna did not follow suit.

“Yes.” She said quietly, and Connor could sense some kind of shame there, like she hadn’t wanted to say yes, but knew that she couldn’t lie.

Connor looked over to his left, at Hank, where he saw the man standing nearby and staring at them so intently, arms crossed like he wasn’t sure what else to do with them, and looking like he was in absolute shock and awe at this entire thing happening right in front of him.

Connor turned his head back down to his lap, gripping tightly onto the bars again, and closing his eyes to try and calm himself.

“Have you ever watched someone die?”

They both said yes.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes.” Connor said. He had hesitated briefly, but knew that it was true. He was in love, or at least, what he thought was love.

Anna nodded her head, tears now slipping down her face, and she also said, “Yes.”

Connor furrowed his brow and looked up at her, though she still couldn’t meet his eyes. She was looking down at her lap, gripping the metal bars like her life depended on it. She had repeatedly told him that she wasn’t sure if she loved him or not, and so…was this a confession?

Or had she meant something else?

“Have you ever masturbated?”

Connor said, “Yes,” and he saw Kamski smirk at this, which made him feel angry at the man, like he was being mocked, like it was funny to him to hear this.

Anna also said, “Yes.”

“Have you ever felt sexual pleasure?”

“Yes.” Connor admitted, and Anna also said that she had.

Kamski turned just to Anna, some unspoken darkness in his eyes, like a hooded twinge of pain that he was holding over her, and asked, “Do you miss Caleb?”

She choked out a dry sob at this question, like he’d gone for a guttural reaction, had gotten her right where he knew it would hurt the most. Anna looked like she was in complete bodily shock, and Connor could see that she was shaking. She flexed her hands around the metal bars in her hands, and said, _“Yes.”_

 _Caleb?_ Connor thought. _Who’s Caleb?_

Kamski pressed further, leaning closer to her, and asking mockingly, “Do you regret what happened to him?”

Kamski was a pendulum, swinging towards her but never touching, never knocking her over. He only neared close enough to scare, and then retreated just as fast. Chased her but deliberately never caught up, so that she’d always be in fear that one day, he would get her.

“Yes.” She said, still flexing her hands like she couldn’t get a good control of them, as they were shaking so much. Her tone was weary, and quiet, like she could barely speak anymore.

“Did you like the way he touched you?” Kamski whispered to her, words drenched in teasing eroticism, though he still spoke intentionally loud enough so that Connor would hear. It was like he knew that these questions would get to her, would make her break. She was falling apart in that seat across from him, Connor could tell, and seemed incredibly distressed by the invasiveness of this test.

It felt beyond a test now. It felt like Kamski was trying to torture her, mentally.

She swallowed thickly, and her skin was retreating again from her hands because of how tightly she was gripping those bars, and she said quietly, dejectedly, “Yes.”

“Did you like the way _I_ did?”

_"No.”_

* * * * *

“I knew.”

“What?”

“I knew. For a long time. Maybe…maybe since I met you.”

They’d left Kamski’s hours ago, now, and he’d let them go. Let Anna walk right out of that place and back to the car with Hank and Connor.

As soon as they got outside, she’d broken down entirely, like Kamski had destroyed the floodgates in her mind and caused everything to come out all at once. She went to Hank for familial comfort, and Connor stepped back to give them space.

The ride back to Detroit was depressingly tense, and Anna cried the whole way there, unable to hold it in any longer. She laid down in the backseat, with her head in Hank’s lap, and cried. Connor drove, constantly looking back in the rearview mirror to watch them, just listening to the sounds of her sobbing. No one said anything, really, except for the occasional promise of reassurance from Hank to her as he tried to calm her down.

Connor had no idea how to comfort her, since he was in as much shock himself, his mind rushing with everything that had been said back at Kamski’s place. He wanted to understand, wanted to sort this all out, and he wanted to hold her. But he wasn’t sure if she wanted to be held by him.

After a little while, she fell asleep, and Hank placed one hand over her head and stroked her hair, trying to keep her comfortable and feeling safe. Dry tears stained her cheeks, and occasionally, she would make a small noise in her sleep, but didn’t wake again until they were back in Detroit.

When they got back to the city, they drove out to the edge of the land on the other side, and sat on a bench near the river, looking out across the bay and to the city on the other side.

“W-when did you realize?” She asked, sitting on the left side of the bench, where Connor sat on the right. Hank was standing over near the water, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“That day,” Connor said, looking out over the water as he spoke. “When we were out at the abandoned trainyard, and you cut your arm on the fence. It was dark, so I couldn’t see the color of it then, but you’d touched your arm with your hand, and then held my hand, and the blood got on me. When I left that night, I noticed the dried blood on my skin. And it was…purple.”

The lights of the city were so bright over there, even this late at night, and the air around them was freezing cold, their breath coming out in warm puffs.

“I’ve never seen an android with purple blood,” Connor said. “But, I knew it wasn’t human.”

He turned to his left to look at her, where she was sitting with her back slumped, and was looking down at the ground beneath her feet.

“Why purple?” He asked. Hank turned at the sound of this, and listened in on their conversation, obviously interested in this answer himself.

“It’s all religiously based.” She said quietly. “Kamski spends all of his time alone, and he's obsessed with religious imagery, aesthetically. He thought he was like a God. In the Bible, red represents the flesh of life, the root of Mankind, and blue represents the stabilizing healing power of God. Purple combines the stability of blue and the energy of red. The color purple symbolizes mystery, magic, power.”

She looked up from the ground, and out over those waters that were nearly entirely smooth, but which flowed and waned slightly beneath the night sky, a night full of rain clouds.

She continued.

“Blue and red coming together in the form of purple symbolizes the union of body and soul, which creates a balance between our physical and spiritual energies.” She held up both of her hands as if to represent the colors, and she brought them together to show the merging of them. “My purple blood is supposed to represent the unity between blue and red, humans and androids. As the ideal partner, I was supposed to signify the creation of new life between different species, the mixing of red and blue.”

Connor nodded his head at her explanation, taking this information in and turning it over in his mind. None of his studies had ever told him any of this before.

“The color purple assists those seeking the meaning of life and spiritual fulfillment.” She said, running her hand over the veins on her left wrist, and Connor could see the purplish color of them. “It expands our horizons and connects us to a higher level of consciousness. For that same reason, philosophers around the world are often attracted to this color. In color psychology, purple represents the future, imagination and dreams. It inspires and improves our psychic abilities and spiritual awareness, as well as ensures that we stay grounded and down to earth.”

She reached out her right hand to grab his left, and connected them, their skin removing at the touch.

“As RK-1000, two models above you, I’m _you_ – but better, in theory. I share many of your abilities, and then some, and I’m able to download your internal database and servers into my own, just by scanning you with my eyes, or touching you. I can probe discreetly, so that you don’t notice.”

She released his hand, and their skin returned to normal, re-covering the white that had been exposed. He met her eyes, and saw still that lingering emotion of her breakdown just hours before.

“When you scan me, you’re unable to see that I’m an android because none of my information was ever put into the system, since I exist in solidarity.” She explained. “I'm the only Eve Model that exists, and if there are more, I do not know of them.”

_Eve._

So her real name…was Eve? Or rather, her given name. Her dead name.

She smiled slightly, though Connor wasn’t sure if there was any happiness behind it, and she said, “I’m even more of a prototype than you are.”

She looked up at Hank, still standing by the water, watching them as they spoke. She smiled at him, and he returned the gesture.

“Hank named me,” She said. “And took care of all of the legal documentation to forge an identity for me, to give me one where I had none. Anna Anderson. He had access to the servers at the DPD, and he got in and set everything up for me. Before that, I was a ghost.”

Connor looked from her to Hank, and back again. He wondered then where Anna had really come from, and how she had ended up with Hank.

“I lived there with him for a long time.” She said, and then looked back down at the ground. “That’s all there is to know.”

“There’s a lot you aren’t telling me, though.” Connor said, and she nodded.

“That is all I feel comfortable revealing today.”

Connor bit his lip, looking out across the bay and going over everything that he’d heard at Kamski’s. Everything was a jumble of a mess in his mind, and he wondered a great many things, too many to ask in one night.

“If I’m RK-800,” He said questioningly, pointing to himself. “And you’re RK-1000,” He pointed to her. “Then who is RK-900?”

She shook her head at his question, and wrapped her arms around herself. Looking down at the snow beneath them, she moved her shoes around in it, pushing it out of the way and making a little empty spot where the tiles of the walkway could now be seen. She was trying to distract herself, to release anxious energy.

“Nobody.” She said emptily, still staring straight down and avoiding him. “He’s just…nobody.”

_He._

So she knows.

But she won’t tell.

He could ask all the questions in the world, yet he may never know all of her in the way that he wished he could. She rarely ever gave him a straight answer, instead dodging the question and closing herself off to him before he could learn what he hoped to.

She was the ocean, and he was the shore. She flowed onto him in small crashes of waves, but never stayed. When she left, his sands were left with the memory of her waters, but he could never have her forever.

Anna was somewhere else, gone and never returned to them. Her mind wasn’t here, and she was hanging onto reality by a phantom thread, ready to break at the faintest touch, the slightest breath.

Biting his tongue was never his strong suit, pushing back those thoughts that he knew were painful for the people around him. And he was no different here when he asked his next question, unable to hold it inside where it was eating him alive.

“Who is Caleb?” Connor asked, turning to his left to look at her, where at the speaking of that name, she seemed to crystalize with some sort of protective shell, like he’d asked the very worst thing he could. “Kamski mentioned a ‘Caleb.’”

She said nothing at all for a very long time, and had that edged look on her face like she would fall apart at any moment, and she was obviously willing back tears, holding her breath and swallowing often, trying to choke them back.

“He’s just…” She began, and then her breath hitched, like thinking about it was too painful for her to ever speak. She shook her head as if to relieve the hurting thoughts, and then ended somberly with, “Somebody I used to know.”

Her lip quivered, and she breathed in and out slowly, closing her eyes as if to wake herself from this nightmare. She had sounded like she was originally going to say something different, but had changed her mind once the words were ready to come out of her mouth. It was like they were too heavy to speak, too painful to recall, and verbalize.

If speaking it made it true, a lot went unsaid.

“But you won’t say more?” Connor asked quietly, hopefully, but she just shook her head, still not meeting his gaze.

“Not today.” She said, looked up and across the waters of the city, staring at the lights on the horizon. They seemed a million miles away.

Who they all were a few hours ago, they were different people now. Forever changed by everything that had just gone down. The Detroit they left was a different Detroit than they’d return to, changed by the ways in which they themselves had changed.

He would have to accept that she would tell him things in time, and if she never did, he would have to accept that, too. If _Caleb_ was a secret that she wasn’t ready to reveal…he would have to live with that.

“I’m really sorry…” Hank said awkwardly, cutting into the conversation and rubbing the back of his neck as if to relieve tension. “If I’d known, I would’ve…shit.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes, and he was a little flushed, likely from the cold, but also from the situation as well.

“It’s alright, Hank.” She said, and Connor realized that that was the first time he’d ever heard her call the older man by his first name. It was like the two of them were finally free to not pretend anymore, and she could call him by that name which flew so casually off her lips, as if she’d spoken it a thousand times before.

And in the moment, Connor realized that there was a history of unknown between Hank and Anna that he knew nothing of. Hank didn’t even know Anna’s true function, her purpose, it seemed, though he at the very least seemed to have known that she was an android.

“No, it’s not.” Hank said. “I feel _awful_.”

“Did you ever think about me, in that way?” She asked, peering up at him from her place on the bench. “It’s alright if you did, I understand.”

“No,” He said earnestly. “I would never. You’re like a daughter to me, or a sister, that’d be… _really_ fucked up, and I would never, _ever_ do anything like that.”

“Well…thank you. I believe you.”

Hank gave her a comforting smile, trying to ease the tension, and then looked back at his car, which was parked just behind them.

“You want to go home?” He asked, but she shook her head.

“Not yet…I feel…like I want to go do something.” She said.

“What do you want to go do?” Hank asked.

She stood up from the bench and brushed the snow off of her pants that had stuck to her from the bench.

“Is the lantern show still happening at the zoo?” She asked, her tone trying to be more jovial. “I think I should enjoy seeing it.”

“We can most definitely do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kiss me goodbye, pushing out before I sleep._   
>  _Can't you see I try?_   
>  _Swimming the same deep water as you is hard._   
>  _The shallow drowned, lose less than we._   
>  _You breathe the strangest twist upon your lips,_   
>  _And we shall be together._   
>  _And we shall be together._
> 
> _I will kiss you, I will kiss you._  
>  _I will kiss you forever on nights like this._  
>  _I will kiss you, I will kiss you,_  
>  _And we shall be together._


	14. Smother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Daughter's song of the same name, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDZaiM8oAOU
> 
> This chapter is quite long (~10,000 words), so I apologize if that's too long.

M A Y 8th, 2 0 3 8

How long do you have to live a lie, before it becomes your truth?

How long before your pain becomes your personality?

Before your heartache becomes your home?

Your sins become your safety?

Your loss becomes your love?

How long do we have to wait before who we used to be comes back to us?

Is it never?

Please don’t say it’s never.

Because if it’s never going to happen, Hank doesn’t know what he’s waiting for anymore.

Everyday, he waits. But it never comes.

The old him left a long time ago, and no matter how long he searches, how deeply he looks within himself, the Hank Anderson that he once was, is now just as clear to him as a dream. Someone distant, fading slowly as each day passes.

Maybe never to have existed at all.

As the days go by, he tries desperately to bury this _thing_ that he’s become, bury it down in a hole where he won’t ever find it again, where _no one_ will ever find it again. Seeing his heart and decorating it like a grave, where it hurts to feel, where it hurts to breathe. Can’t remember his own face, putting ashes back into place, where he once was. He’d eaten the sun, so his tongue had been burned of the taste.

Today was May 8th, 2038.

Two years, six months, and twenty-seven days.

Nine-hundred and forty days in total.

And every day felt like the same day. Like he still lived on that October 11th, 2035, and everyone else had left him behind. Time stopped passing the day that Cole died, and it hasn’t moved since. The calendar may change, the years may move forward, but not really. Because for Hank, time meant nothing now.

When a parent dies, a child is reminded of their own mortality.

But when a child dies, it’s immortality that a parent loses.

After his wife left him, and Cole passed away – he was alone for the first time in so many years. And to be alone with himself, that was the cruelest punishment of all. Isolation in the form of self-deprecation, self-loathing, and he’d already endured so much.

The family home that once he’d imagined staying in forever, was now haunted by the ghosts of the family he’d gained and lost in the blink of an eye. And he knew that he couldn’t stay there any longer, living lonely in the spaces in-between, where he could still feel the ones he'd loved leaving him over, and over, and over again.

So he moved out of that house, that beautiful, two-story house just outside the city, the one with the sycamore trees and the yellow paneling, with the wooden trellis trailing up the side, over the garden, the garden that his wife had tended to, so many summers ago. The same house where he promised his wife that they would grow old together in.

And from that haunted place, he moved to 115 Michigan Drive, into that small, one-bedroom house on the outskirts of the city, on the entire opposite side of town from his old place.

In a way, it was like a punishment to himself, because after everything that’d happened, after everything _he’d_ done, he felt like he didn’t deserve to live anywhere beautiful. Didn’t deserve to live in that heavenly home where a family could’ve grown.

He got a dog. Started slacking off at work. Became belligerent, dismissive. Went to therapy. Quit therapy. Smoked to try and feel better about being depressed. Drank to fight the urge to smoke. Tried morphine once. Didn’t like it. Started showing up to work later, and later, and later. Didn’t want to go in to work, because going in to work meant eventually coming home, and coming home meant walking into an empty house, remembering that no one was waiting there for him, that no one cared. He jerked off a lot to forget how shitty he felt all the time, but it didn’t really help. Got rid of all the photos of his wife and son. Covered up all the mirrors in his house. Stayed in bed. A lot. Cried whenever he remembered who he was, whenever he remembered that this was really the life that he was living.

Tried to commit suicide.

Almost succeeded.

Missed the veins.

And the worst part was, no one ever asked. He cleaned himself up when the bleeding out was taking too long, and the pain started to kick in as his blood alcohol level went down. He didn’t go to a hospital. And that night, he went to bed. And he woke up the next day, got dressed, and went to work.

And nobody said a thing.

That day in May, 2038, it rained. It was a warm, muggy rain, and the temperature was fairly high for late Spring in Michigan, somewhere around the high 60s [Fahrenheit]. By three o’clock, he’d already had two beers, a brandy, a few shots of whiskey, and three cups of coffee. Somebody in the office ordered shrimp cocktail after an afternoon meeting, and they all sat around the rectangular table in the meeting room, laughing and talking about whatever shit was on their minds, all of them just a little buzzed from the liquor. These weren’t important details, but he remembered them, because that day wasn’t one he’d ever forget.

It was dark out when then they got a call, sometime around seven o’clock in the evening. Bloomfield Hills, also known as the neighborhood where the richest of the rich sat around in a circle-jerk and bragged about how much money they had – some house there’d gotten busted for running a meth lab in the basement [red ice is a type of meth], and Hank was assigned to the case. Naturally, though, given the scale of the bust, and the intrigue of who might be behind it, everybody still at the police station at this late hour filed into every squad car they had and headed over to the scene to try and catch a glimpse of whatever rich asshole got caught with his hands down his pants.

Well, it was more than just a house, Hank realized when he pulled up at the address, Gavin riding in the passenger’s seat. It was a whole, goddamn mansion, and with all the cop cars around, it looked like a mass murder had gone down here, with holographic caution tape all around the exterior, and people from the neighborhood standing on the street in bathrobes, trying to nose around and watch their neighbors as they were ushered into the back of one of those cop cars.

The man who owned to house was some big-wig CEO for a self-driving cab company in town, an offshoot of CyberLife, which normally would mean a potentially damning scandal for the megacorp, if they weren’t so rich that they could just brush this under the rug like it was nothing. People would talk about this for a little while, and then they’d move on when something more interesting caught their eye. News was only exciting when it was _new_. Then people shrug and forget about it.

The mansion was red brick, with off-white pillars that stretched three stories high. With ten bedrooms and ten bathrooms, the house stretched over three acres of land, all while facing the Bloomfield Hills' Country Club golf course. Outside the front entrance was a largely unnecessary rounded fountain that just beckoned you with instant affinities of wealth to be found inside.

Through the front doors, it opened up into a beautifully crystal-white foyer, with a double, curving staircase and rounded balcony above, overlooking the front area. Most of the house was blocked off now, and in various places, many items seemed vaguely disheveled – a few pillows pushed off couches, a few broken glasses – like somebody was trying to clean up as quickly as possible once they knew that someone was coming.

The rain beat on outside, just barely audible from in the house, rumbling softly on the roof above. Not really a storm, but still a reminder of those late spring showers that came around just about each week then.

Though he was technically here for a job-related purpose, Hank did find himself curious what a house like this might look like, so when nobody was around, he nipped off to go explore a little bit, feeling more adventurous from the buzz of the alcohol from earlier that day. Inside, he found a fully-stocked, paneled library that was two-stories high, a sun room with a grand piano, two billiard rooms, a home theater, and an indoor poolroom, designed like a grotto. There were grand staircases on each floor, but also a mahogany-paneled elevator connecting them. In order to accommodate guests, there were two heated garages and a dining room that could sit over twelve people.

The faint hum of people talking all over different parts of the house could be heard, but Hank had intentionally distanced himself from anyone else so that he could explore and investigate in peace. There were so many people here that he didn’t want to be tripping over anybody while they all went about their business. His area of focus was drugs, specifically red ice, but with such a great many people here, it didn’t really seem like he was needed anyway.

Since the meth lab had been based in the basement, that’s where the majority of people were, taking samples and sorting through all of the files and information that were stored down there. Upstairs, Hank was sifting through a bathroom cabinet, seeing what was in there and not really caring to take anything too seriously. This case was as good as handled, so he figured he’d just have some fun while he was here.

From another room, outside the bathroom, he heard this sort of deep, vibrational sound, like a rapping on glass, one that reverberated up and around, like inside of a fish bowl. He fumbled with what he was holding, which were some pill bottles from the medicine cabinet, then quickly reorganized them where he’d found them. He closed the mirrored door of the cabinet as quickly and quietly as possible, and then tiptoed out of the room and shut the door slowly behind him. Stepping away from the bathroom, he tried to act as casually as possible.

But nobody was around.

He walked to the end of the hall and looked around the corner. Nobody was there. He walked to the center of the room and looked down the railing by the stairs. Nobody was there, either, and he could still only hear the sounds of people talking echoing up through the stairwell from downstairs.

He looked around, trying to figure out where that glassy sound had come from, but he couldn’t hear anything else on this floor. He walked back to the end of the hall and started checking each room, popping his head in to see what was in them – a bedroom, another bedroom, the bathroom from before, a home office, the library – and then, he heard it again, louder, this time.

He listened intently, and felt like the sound was coming from inside the walls. He was still in the library, and he looked up and all around, trying to see if there was something glass in there that could’ve made that rebounding sound. He trailed his hands all along the bookshelves, and then put an ear up to each wall, focusing his hearing in on them to see if he could catch the sound again.

Through one wall of books, he could hear it, faintly, and he took a few steps back and studied that wall. He looked back to the door to see if anyone was coming, and then he walked over to it and closed it, turning the lock so that nobody could come in after him. Back to the wall of books, he went to town checking every little nook and cranny that he could, but there was nothing. He hoped there’d be a secret entrance somewhere, just because that would've been fucking cool.

When he resigned to accept that there wasn’t anything there, he took a last sweep over the shelves and then stepped back. He looked up and down, left and right, and then decided that there was nothing.

When he walked away, though, that’s when he found it.

Below him, as he took a few steps away and towards the door, he felt the wooden floor beneath him hollow out in a specific place. He bounced lightly up and down, and stepped in place, listening to the floor creak hollowly below his feet, underneath the rug.

He walked over to the edge of the rug and pulled it up, pushing it out of the way to reveal the wooden floor hidden beneath. And in that wooden floor, there was a small, rectangular line, almost imperceptible, which signaled the shape of a movable panel. A hatch, or trap door, so to speak.

He felt giddy with excitement, as this was just too ridiculously cliché to be real, and it seemed like nobody else had found this yet. He looked back to the door to check again that he was in the clear, and then he moved to pull the hatch up, and surprisingly, it was unlocked. There was a lock on it, but it had been recently opened, and never re-locked again.

Pushing up the wooden panel, it opened down to a little staircase, maybe 10 steps, give or take. With just a brief moment of thought, he descended them, and found that at the bottom, there was a short, concrete hallway, one which ended on the other side in a similar set of stairs, this time going up. He left the panel open behind him, just in case it might lock on him, and then headed down.

On the other side, the stairs led up to another panel. He pushed on it and it opened up into a little secret room, 50s themed, with a pool table in the center, diner-like chairs all around, a jukebox, and a fully-stocked bar on the opposite wall, with neon signs saying things like _OPEN_ and _CHERRY-BOMB_. It was comfortable and warm, obviously meant as an offshoot of the library, perhaps for late evenings over brandy and cocktails where the rich would get together and talk stocks or money ledgers.

He trailed his hands over the bar-counter, over the pool table, over the leather of the seats. On one wall, there were a few windows, and he walked over to take a look outside, where he could see that it had stopped raining at this point, and that some of the police were standing outside, surveying the perimeter. It was dark in the room he was in, and the only light filtered in from the moon and the squad car lights.

On another wall, there was a single door, wooden and unassuming. Hank took a last look out the window before heading over to it, giving it a glance and then disregarding it. From the bar, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the rack and poured some into a small glass, taking a sip immediately and tasting the strong flavor. Now he was ready to go through the door.

Glass held in his left hand, he used his right to turn the knob and push the door open, which revealed a fairly long and wide room, dark, but which again was illuminated by the moonlight from windows on the opposite side, and along the right-hand wall.

It was a very tech-themed room, with lots of monitors and CPUS, wires and cables stretching from left to right, all along the floor. There were multiple desks and rolling office chairs, all of them seeming to have just been in use, like everyone had up and left in an instant. Papers were tossed to the floor in a flurry, and some of the computers were still on. It was like somebody had set up a NASA control room inside of a Victorian museum, very much so out-of-place and futuristic for the vintage architecture of the room.

At the very end, though, there was an entire glass wall, one which had no openings. On the other side of the glass, there was a quaint little bedroom, with a quilted bed, an ornate standing mirror, an armoire, a vanity, et cetera. The bedroom was on a small platform, and two steps led up to it from the edge of the glass.

He stepped over the wires of the room, taking a few looks here and there to see what was on the monitors, but nothing jumped out at him. He took a drink from his glass and gazed all around the room, gawking at the intrigue of it all.

When he reached the end, he stopped in front of the glass and looked through it at the little bedroom. It was like a set-up, like one of those old-timey bedrooms that are set up in museums to resemble what a bedroom from the 1800s may have looked like, and Hank half expected there to be some creepy-looking animatronics or wax figures inside dressed in frilly clothes, just begging you to turn around so they could change positions just slightly to make you feel crazy when you looked back.

And, that’s basically what happened.

Only, it was a thousand times worse.

A thousand times more real.

But it wasn’t creepy.

It was sad.

From a dark corner, he saw movement, and from those shadows, somebody approached him, somebody who was all white, with no hair, and no clothes.

An android.

An android without its skin.

Without _her_ skin.

He was taken aback, and his mouth opened slightly as he tried to bring in air in a breathless gasp. The android seemed more scared of him than he was of it, of _her_ , and she moved tentatively, yet curiously, closer to the glass where he was standing.

Though she had no skin, Hank felt like he was infringing on her privacy by seeing her in this vulnerable state, unclothed and bare to him, though nothing could be seen on her otherwise barbie-doll body. Only the color of her eyes was retained in this state, but the green of them was barely visible in this light, and he only realized the actual color of them later on, when he was able to see her more closely.

She tilted her head, as if examining him, and stepped very gracefully, poised like a delicate dancer, or like a doe approaching a human in the woods. She curiously looked him over with her eyes, and then stopped on his face, blinking a few times, her LED yellow with wonder, and then blue once she realized that he would not hurt her.

She moved to stand right in front of him, and he found that she was a decent bit shorter than him, almost by an entire foot, and he suddenly felt so very much like _he_ was the predator here. Androids had always been framed as such potentially dangerous machines, and yet, here he was, suddenly so much like a human to a spider. Even though they may seem scary, they’re much more scared of you, than you are of them.

He could see that she was breathing, and he wondered if that was a necessary function, or if it were just for show, to seem more human. Her breaths were short, and quick, like she was nervous or afraid. It was quite cold in this particular room, and the heat of her breath even left a slight fog on the glass as she stood near it, which Hank couldn’t believe that he was really seeing.

“Can you hear me?” He asked, vaguely gesturing to his ear, and as he spoke, she watched the movements of his lips carefully. She shook her head to say that she couldn’t.

He had no idea what to think, or what to feel, because this situation was so strange and unbelievable that he couldn't make sense of it. She was all alone in there, and with this being a secret room, maybe no one would ever find her. And if they did, God only knows what they'd do to her.

In a moment of what might've been impulsive stupidity, or maybe  because he still a little drunk, he decided immediately what he would do.

“I-I’m gonna get you out.” He said, and then put up both of his hands, beginning to back away. “Just stay put, okay? Just stay right there.”

She nodded her head slowly, to show that she understood, and then he turned away from her. On a nearby desk, he put down his drink, and then moved to try and figure out if there was some sort of exit out of the glass room that she was held in.

He looked over all of the monitors in the room, but none of them had any information on how to get her out. Hoping for some big, red button somewhere was completely unlikely, but, he still thought of it.

Giving up on that quickly, he grabbed one of the office chairs and held it up, carrying it over to the glass. He motioned for her to stand back, and she did, quickly backing away from the glass to give him space.

He smashed the chair against the glass, but it did nothing, so he did it again. And still, it did nothing. Once more, and nothing, again.

He put it back down, breathing deeply from the exertion of it.

On the other side of the glass, she looked around, and he watched her curiously when she re-approached the glass.

She stood very close to it, and placed both of her hands up on it, and then leaned her head on it, closing her eyes. He watched from a few feet away, not moving at all and just waiting to see what she was doing. She pushed on the glass as hard as she could, and her LED glowed brightly red.

It was about a minute or two before anything happened.

And then, it shattered. As neatly as he’d ever seen anything shatter, straight down onto the ground like it had broken completely in one place. It didn’t explode, or smash, or anything. It just, shattered, neatly to the floor, like it fell apart.

His mouth dropped open at this sight, and he looked up to see her just standing there, watching him curiously, unfazed by what she’d just done, apparently.

“H-how did you do that?” He asked exasperatedly.

“I can emit strong electrical currents from my body, much like lightning. But it drains my battery to do so, and it is quite painful.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “If you can do _that_ ,” He gestured to her and the glass on the floor. “Why haven’t you just done it before?”

“Because they told me not to."

And there it was. The reason why androids never rebelled, even though they could easily burn this world down ten times over.

Because humans said no. And androids were designed to listen. That's why they kept their LEDs on. Not because the little lights were difficult to remove, because they definitely weren't. No. It was because humans told them not to take them off, and they had to comply. It was like a brand, a constant reminder of their place in this world.

“That’s fucking insane.” He said breathlessly, scoffing at the absurdity of it all, and still looking up in amazement at where the glass had been. “Were you…” He gestured vaguely with his hand. “ _Designed_ to be able to do that?”

She shook her head. “No, it is because I am a prototype that I am able.” She informed him. “I have to overheat myself to produce the shock, but, I can do it if I focus hard enough.”

“Jesus…” He said, still taking in whatever the hell he’d just seen. She may have been trapped and afraid, but she could easily crush the life out of him if she wanted to.

But she didn’t want to, it seemed. And he was glad of that. Even knowing that she had this undeniable power over him, in being an android, there was no part of her that struck him as _wanting_ to do that. For all intents and purposes, she seemed harmless, at least, _to him._

She stepped out into the room slowly, her steps deliberate, the glass crushing beneath her metallic white feet. She gazed around at her surroundings with curiosity, taking in the room and looking at all of the monitors and desks. Her eyes were wide with wonder and intrigue, like she'd never before been able to walk free in this way.

She stopped moving, and stood, about five feet away from him, staring him down like a deer apprehensively standing in the headlights of a vehicle.

“Do you work for _him?”_ She asked, maintaining her distance, and Hank furrowed his brow.

“Him who?” He asked, looking for further explanation.

She eyed him curiously, looking him up and down, suspicious of this stranger who’d just shown up out of nowhere and infiltrated her home. There was some kind of analysis she was doing of him, he could tell, and he wondered if perhaps she were judging whether or not he were a good person.

“Kamski.” 

_Elijah Kamski?_  Hank wondered. Was this all because of him? The man who owned this house _did_ work for CyberLife, after all, so the connection wouldn’t be unheard of.

“No,” Hank reassured her, putting his hands up slightly to show that he came in peace. “I’m just a cop, I work for the DPD.”

“Good.” She said quickly, firmly. “I am glad that you do not work for him.”

He watched her curiously, wondering why this particular subject had concerned her, though he wasn’t sure that he should ask, or if he even really wanted to know the answer.

She approached him slowly, taking long, flowing steps, tilting her head to get a good, curious look at him.

She stopped in front of him, their differing heights rivaling again, and looked right up at his face, staring at him for a long time as if thinking very carefully about what he looked like, taking in every single little nuance of his appearance.

“Are you real?” She asked, somewhat breathless at the question, gazing up at him in absolute wonder.

He nodded and said, “Yes.” He wasn’t sure what else there was to say here. It was a strange question, and not one that he had expected to ever be asked, by anyone.

She reached her right hand up to his face and placed it overtop his eyes, trailing her fingers over his lashes, his nose, his lips, his chin, then gone again.

“You are very pretty.” She stated earnestly, pulling her hand away, and he let out a slight chuckle.

“Pretty?” He asked, taken aback at this particular word being used to describe him. "How am I... _pretty?"_

“Your hair is a pretty color." She said, reaching back up to lightly touch the ends of his white-gray hair. "Androids don't usually have that color." She told him, still examining the strands like she'd never seen hair before in her entire life. "Humans age so beautifully." She said. "I wish that I could age."

He looked over her face while she studied him, and then he asked curiously, “How old _are_ you?"

She was quiet, and thought to herself for a moment. Hank wondered if she were just going to make something up on the spot, but then said honestly, “Six.”

He let out a humored scoff at this number, unintentionally, and then asked, for clarification, “You’re… _six?”_

“Yes.” She said with a nod, not seeming to notice the vaguely illogical fallacy of this. “I was born in 2032, so I am six.”

“Okay.” He said slowly, nodding, and then he shrugged slightly and accepted it. If she said she was six, she was six. She knew better than he did, after all.

“Do I look six?” She asked, her tone suggesting that she was interested in his opinion, possibly searching for some kind of validation or approval.

“No." He said, shaking his head. "You definitely don’t look six.”

“What do I look, then?" She asked, and he moved his lips from side to side in consideration. 

“I don’t know…" He said, shrugging. "Eighteen, nineteen, maybe.”

She nodded at his words, pursing her lips, and then said, “Okay. I am nineteen, then.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get out another word, he heard the sound of a car door slam shut outside, and he was pulled back to the reality of where they were, and what was going on around them.

“Come on.” He said, and held out his left hand for her to take. She hesitated for a moment, looking at his extended hand with apprehension, but, given that she had no other options, she grabbed onto him.

It didn't take them long to get outside, as most everyone was still down in the basement, the rest having headed out to their vehicles and back to the precinct.

They snuck as carefully as they could through the mansion, taking back hallways and jetting past windows, trying to avoid being seen. Being caught with an android without its skin would've been difficult to explain, so Hank was praying to whatever higher power there was out there that he wouldn't be found out. 

They dashed out a back door together, him still lightly tugging her along with him so that he could keep her close, and then he ushered her over to his car, which they quickly entered.

When she got inside of the car, she immediately put on her seatbelt, with robotic precision and care, and then sat perfectly straight, with her hands clasped politely in her lap. Though, upon a closer glance, Hank could see that she was wringing her hands anxiously.

He started the car quickly, though not _too_ quickly, so as to not raise suspicion, and then pulled smoothly out of the front of the house and down the long driveway back onto the street. He looked back for a moment to make sure no one had followed them, and then he turned back to focus on the road.

Everything had happened so quickly, and he hadn't even taken the time to fully realize just exactly what he was doing, or _why_ he was doing it. He hadn't weighed out the consequences of his actions, and now, here he was, with this whole new person in-tow that he had no idea what he was going to do with. 

He suddenly realized then that he hadn’t even introduced himself yet, and he was driving away with this android, or rather, _woman_ , that he knew nothing about.

“My name is Hank.” He said, gesturing to himself with one hand off the wheel. “Hank Anderson.”

“Hank.” She repeated his name, nodding her head acceptingly of it. “Hank means ruler, like royalty.”

“Well, I’m definitely not _that_.” He said with a slightly self-deprecating laugh. “My real name is Henry,” He said, and flexed his hands around the wheel. “But, I go by Hank, now. Like a nickname.”

“Hank.” She said it again, still testing it out, but saying it in a slightly different tone. “Hank.”

He peered back over to her, quirking a brow at the amusement of her seeming to be committing his name to memory. She was looking around a little bit at everything in his car, from the stickers on his dash to the tiny hula-dancer figurine.

“Do you have a name?” He asked curiously, one, because he did really want to know, but also because he was genuinely wondering if she did, and what it may be if she did.

She took in a small breath, held it in thought, and then released it. “I…have none.” She said, and Hank felt concern for her downtrodden tone.

“Really?” He asked concernedly, turning further towards her, only his left hand still on the wheel. “That’s terrible. Would you like one?”

“Mm, maybe.” She said, and she sounded like she was curious, yet cautious. “What name would you give me?”

He thought for a moment, and then decided that he didn’t know enough about her to come up with any sort of name, so he said, “I…don’t really know, honestly.”

She nodded, and then said, “Well…I was once called Anna, by…by a friend.” She swallowed after these words, as if also swallowing back the memory of this _friend_. “He came up with the name. Though, once he was gone, I was not called it for a long time. Three years, exactly.”

So, she was an older model? He wondered. If she had memories of, at the very least, three years back, then she must not be recent. Or, well, admittedly, he didn’t know that much about the intricacies of androids, since he kept them all as far from him as possible.

“He was the only one who called you Anna?” He asked, still thinking about what she’d said. “Your friend?”

“Yes.” She said, and nodded sadly. “But, before he called me Anna, I was called Eve. Though I do not want to be called Eve.”

“So, do you want to be called Anna?”

“I think that I do.”  She said. “I think that that would be appropriate.”

“Anna it is, then.”

* * * * *

J A N U A R Y 31st, 2 0 3 9

_“Anna_ , I’m not ready.”

“Then _when,_ Hank, _when?”_

“I-I don’t know.”

“I bet _he’s_ ready to see _you.”_

Him.

Cole.

Things had gotten exponentially better between the three of them, since that day at Kamski's. So much more was out in the open now, and Connor felt like these walls around them were being broken down, now that he knew more of the truth. Not everything was on the table yet, but he was slowly coming to understand and accept that being alive didn't have to mean knowing everything, and that everyone was entitled to their secrets. If there were lifetimes that Anna and Hank weren't ready to tell him about yet, then he would just have to live with that, because if he wanted to be a part of their lives, he was going to have to accept that there were parts of them that didn't involve him.

They'd told Connor everything when they'd gotten home, about how Hank had found her, about how they'd crafted this identity for her, about how long she'd been there. Everything. 

And he wasn't mad, or upset, or anything. Because he _understood_. Months ago, maybe he wouldn't have, but if there was one thing he'd learned from them, it was how to accept when someone does something to protect you, and that sometimes, the truth is better left unsaid.

This morning, the thirty-first of January, Anna and Connor had somehow talked Hank into coming out to Cole's grave, on this sunshiny Monday, and so now, here they all were, standing right before it, in Woodlawn Cemetery, just a bit Northwest of Detroit.

Before the little grave, Hank knelt down on both knees, and sunk to the grass. The snow had melted that weekend after all the rain they’d been getting, and following the particularly warm week they’d had. It was still cold, of course, and the grass was frosted with ice, but, no snow.

“I feel like I abandoned him…” Hank said, and he sounded distant, lost. “I should’ve come sooner.”

Connor stood quietly behind him, giving the man space so that he could take in this moment however he needed to.

It had been just a short drive from Hank’s house to get there, about twenty minutes, with traffic, yet despite this, the older man had admitted this morning that in these years since his son’s death, he’d only ever been out there once, when Cole was buried. And then he never came back.

“He’s been waiting so long for me,” Hank said, his voice quieted and becoming hoarse. “And I've been such a shitty father…I couldn’t come. God, I’m a terrible person.”

“No, you’re not.” Anna said firmly, but caringly. She knelt down next to him. _“Don’t_ say that. Cole would understand how you felt.” She put her right arm around him comfortingly. “He would understand that you couldn’t come.”

Hank sniffled, and though he wasn’t full-out crying, Connor knew that it was verging on that, and that Hank was still trying to hold it back. Because holding it back gave him the safety of being able to walk away and feel nothing. If he cried, he was allowing himself to indulge in the reality of how so very _not okay_ he really was.

“I miss him so much.” Hank said, and swallowed back tears. He reached up a hand to his eyes and rubbed them.

“I know you do,” She said, rubbing circles into his back reassuringly. “I know you do.”

Connor looked up at the sky, and saw that the sun was going in and out behind a few clouds. He squinted up at it, taking in the feeling of the warmth, which had been so very absent these past few months. There was little wind around them, and everything felt very still, unmoving and quiet.

“I should’ve just come…” He said, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have waited so long.”

She wrapped her arms around him, and he reciprocated, pulling her into him like if he let go, she’d fly away from him.

“I can’t say that everything’s okay, because it’s not okay.” She said, holding onto the back of his head in a motherly sort of way. “But what I do know is that you’re an _incredible_ person, Hank, and I know that you can make it through. And one day, one day, it’ll be okay, even if isn’t right now.”

She sniffled herself, and though Connor couldn’t see her face fully, as she was only half facing him, he could tell that she was crying, too, though trying not to make it about her. This was about Hank, and how he was feeling, and her sole attention was on him.

She kept pulling him closer, not letting him go, and then in a comforting tone, she said, “ _It’s okay not to be okay.”_

And that’s what did it. That’s what made Hank break right in front of them. His quiet sobs were muffled into her as she held him, and he looked so very small as he knelt before her on the ground, crying into her shoulder. She only pulled him that much closer, if it were even possible, at the feeling of him breaking down.

“Somewhere out there, he’s watching,” She cooed, looking up at the sky. “And he is _so_ happy to see you. And he loves you so much.”

She shushed him quietly, letting him know that she was there, and that it was okay for him to let it all out.

“Hank, you are one of the best people I’ve ever met.” She said. “And if you weren’t here, the world would be a little less happy with you gone, would be a little bit darker.”

Connor looked up at the sky again, where the sun seemed to be shining just for them, the clouds moved so as to not hide it from their eyes now. Like it was out for a reason. He didn’t know what it meant, but after knowing her, he’d learned to start looking for beauty and significance in every little thing.

“Maybe it doesn’t seem like it now,” She said. “But, you mean so much to so many people. And I don’t know what I would do without you. You saved me from a terrible place, and I can never repay you for that. All I want is for you to know how important you are. And how much…I love you, too.”

Both of their faces were pink from the cold, their cheeks and noses dusted in that light red of winter and spilled emotions.

“We may not be related by blood, or species, even…” She let out a small laugh through her tears. “But we’re family. And you are a part of my world, and I hope that I’m a part of yours.”

She pulled away from the hug and put her hands up to his face, gently making him look at her. She smiled as comfortingly and warmly as she could, and then pressed a soft kiss into his forehead, leaning up slightly on her knees to do so. She trailed her hands from his face down to his shoulders, squeezing them lightly with her palms, and then nodding her head down as if to make sure he was okay. He reached up his own hand to his face and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Don’t look back in anger, okay?” She said, and he nodded. “Promise me that you’ll never look back with hurt in your heart. I want you to feel okay, Hank, because you’re so important, _so_ important.”

Connor reached up to his own face and wiped his eyes, realizing that they were streaming down his cheeks.

“Because you’re worth so much.” She said, nodding at Hank to show him that she understood and that she was there for him. “And I want you to know that, okay?”

She pulled her hands away, and then stood up from the ground, brushing the small bit of snow off her knees. She held out her hand for him to grab and stand up with her, and he accepted it.

Now standing in front of him, she asked, “Before you moved into your house that you live in now, where did you live, before? You mentioned to me a long time ago that before Cole died, you lived in a different house. Where is it?”

He brushed the snow off his own pants, and then looked off in the distance. “It’s on the complete other side of the city,” He said, sniffling. “In some white, picket-fence kinda place. It feels like another world now.”

“Why’d you move?” Connor asked, his first words in a while. Hank looked over at him.

“I couldn’t bear to be there anymore,” He said. “When he wasn’t.”

Connor nodded and pulled his lips into his mouth. He put his hands into his pockets to keep them warm, and looked around. Anna seemed to notice that he was cold, and she walked over to him, taking her yellow scarf from around her neck and then reaching up on her tiptoes to wrap it around Connor’s neck. He nodded in thanks and she seemed happy that he’d accepted it.

It was instantly warm, and it smelled like her, and all he wanted to do was feel that way on his entire body. He wanted to pull her into him and have her comfort him the way she just had done for Hank. That release of emotions and feeling of protection, he craved it.

Hank let out a deep sigh, and then looked down at the ground, pushing his boot into the frozen grass a little.

“It was like…like he kept dying.” He said, still looking down while he spoke. “He was dead, _actually_ dead, in the accident. But then, every time I came home, and looked around, and I saw his shoes by the door, or I, saw his coat hanging on the rack, and he wasn’t there…it was like he died again. And I couldn’t live like that. I couldn’t live in that place anymore, where I kept remembering that he was gone.”

* * * * *

M A Y 8th, 2 0 3 8

“We should get you some clothes.”

Hank and Anna were at his house, now, having just arrived a few minutes prior. When they’d first walked in, she hadn’t touched anything at all, instead keeping to herself with her arms wrapped around her body shyly. It was like she was afraid to even walk on his floor, like he would punish her for touching any of his things.

“Clothes?” She asked, her tone giving a notable reaction to the word. “Yes…I would like that.”

“Good.” He nodded, and then started walking away towards his bedroom, down the short hall. “I’ll go get you something.”

When he returned, she still hadn't moved at all, and he held out to her what he'd brought.

“Here, I just grabbed a t-shirt. It’ll probably be really long on you, like a dress. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” She nodded, accepting it gratefully into her hands. “This is okay. Thank you.”

She took a look at the shirt, which was an old gray band shirt, and then pulled it on over her head. He was right, about it looking like a dress, which it definitely was on her, going down to her mid-thighs, almost.

Once she had it on, she seemed a little more comfortable to be covered, but still very much awkward in this situation. She avoided eye-contact with him, and looked around the room, still not moving at all from the spot where she stood.

Her LED was blue, so that was a good sign, right?

“What about your…uh…skin?” He asked awkwardly, trying to make conversation.

“Oh!” She said, looking down at her arms. “I almost forgot.”

“There’s a mirror over here, if you need to use it.” He gestured into the hallway, where there was a mirror hanging on the wall near the bathroom door.

She passed by him tentatively, then stepped in front of this mirror. To her right temple, she placed two fingers from her right hand, then closed her eyes, seeming to be tranquilly concentrating on making the nanobots of her skin come back out onto the surface and spread out onto her physical body.

Where once there was white metal, now there was pale, _human_ skin. Where once there was a bald head, now there was long, strawberry-blonde hair, bangs spread across her forehead. She blinked at her own reflection, as if acknowledging it, and then turned from the mirror, back to Hank.

She looked at him curiously, awaiting his next command for her to do something.

“I…uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “You look…nice.”

She bowed her head slightly, and said, “Thank you.”

He eyed her LED curiously and said, “What about that?” And he pointed to it.

The fingers of her hand rushed back up to it, and it turned yellow momentarily. She seemed distressed at this realization, looking into the mirror beside her, and then back at him. “What do I do?” She asked.

“Here, let me help.” He said, and then approached her slowly.

He held up his hands and waited for her to give him permission to touch her, and once she did, he gently placed his hands up to her temple. He ran his thumb over the LED, feeling the rivets of the little circle. He pulled away, and then walked over to the kitchen to find something to pull it off with. He didn’t want to pick anything too sharp, or dangerous, so he settled on a butter knife, and hoped that that would be enough.

He brought it back to her, and held it up so she could see. “Is this okay?” He asked, and she nodded in permission of the item.

He returned his hands to her temple, and slid the end of the butter knife into the thin crevice around her LED, then began to try and pry it off of her. It was a little resistant, but not _too_ bad, kind of like a magnet.

While he was pulling it off, she seemed to wince in pain, and in seeing this, Hank quickly stopped moving and asked, “Are you alright?” And she nodded, though her nose was still scrunched like it hurt.

He held it up to her once he'd removed it, and she looked at it in the palm of his hand, though made no move to accept it into her own hands. She reached up and felt the place where it had been, and Hank realized that the skin of the area had filled in the gap, making it imperceptible that anything had been there at all.

He took the little LED and tossed it into a nearby box, one full of Easter decorations that he’d _finally_ taken down, one he’d soon put up in the attic until next year.

“So…” He began, then let out a sigh. “This is probably weird.”

“No.” She said, and he felt like she'd really meant it. “It isn’t weird.”

“Are you tired?” He asked, and then realized after he’d said it that she was an android, and didn’t need sleep.

“I don’t become tired like a human, but my batteries _are_ drained. If you have a power outlet nearby, I could charge my energy that way, or perhaps I could just take a few hours nap in a low-power mode.”

“I can, uh…would you rather sleep in here?” He gestured to the couch. “Or, maybe in my room, on a real bed.” But then he added quickly: “I won’t be there, though, if you want to sleep in my bed. I’ll stay out here.”

“Are you nervous?” She asked innocuously.

“Just a little…” Hank said jokingly, but she didn’t smile, and he knew that she could tell how he really felt. “ _Yeah_ , nervous, I guess.” He admitted.

She nodded and said, “I am also nervous.”

He pulled a curious face and asked, “About what?”

She seemed to consider for a moment what she would say, breathing for a few short beats, and then said, “Human men have not been kind to me.”

“Oh, shit…” He said awkwardly, suddenly so very self-conscious about this entire situation. “I…I’m sorry. S-should I not have brought you here?”

“Oh, no,” She said quickly. “I…appreciate what you’ve done for me. But, I just wanted you to know that I am apprehensive of you, because I do not know your intentions.”

“That’s…completely understandable.” He said, and breathed a slight sigh of relief.

She looked all around the room, taking in her surroundings and studying the environment carefully.

“Am I to live here now?” She asked curiously, and her tone had no sort of connotation at all. It was like a programmed response, like she assumed that since she was here, she must now stay.

“Do you want to?” He asked, and she nodded, still looking around.

“It is nice here,” She stated. “I like it, and though I do not know you well, you seem nice, too. I think that I should like it here. Am I allowed to stay?”

“Yes.” He said, nodding with a warm smile. “You’re definitely allowed to stay.”

* * * * *

J A N U A R Y 31st, 2 0 3 9

“I wonder who lives here now.” Hank said as the three of them now stood outside his old home, the one he'd lived in with his wife, Abigail, and Cole.

It looked almost exactly the same, with its yellow paneling and light brown shingled roof. The garden with the wooden trellis was the same as it had been when he had lived there, and the swing on the tree out front was untouched from when he had built it for Cole.

“Let’s find out.” Anna said with a grin, and then jetted off up the driveway of the house.

“Anna!” Hank called, trying to keep quiet so as to not draw attention to them. “Anna, we can’t be here!"

He gave a frantic look to Connor, who was trying not to smile, and then they both rushed off after her, where she was heading around the back side of the house.

She had stopped near the trellis, and was looking up at all of the windows along the side.

“This was your home, Hank.” She said, still looking up. “Look,” She pointed to the driveway, and he turned to look. “There are no cars in the driveway, so they’re not home right now. I’m sure they won’t mind if we take a little look around.”

Before he could stop her, she grabbed onto the tan trellis beside the house and started climbing up it at a quick pace, likely so that Hank couldn’t keep her from going up. Connor gave Hank a slight shrug before grabbing onto the trellis himself and following right behind her. They climbed it all the way to the top, where it stood right at level with the windows on the second floor. They both stood on top and it wiggled beneath their feet like Jell-O, threatening to crash down. She quickly surveyed the three window options she had before her, and then selected the one in the middle, likely at random.

She crossed over the trellis carefully and then slid the window open, hoisting her leg up and in so that she could climb inside. Once she was in, she walked out of view and Connor couldn’t see her anymore. He looked back to make sure that Hank was following – he was – and then Connor crossed over to the window himself.

Through the window and into the house, Connor pulled himself up the panels of the trellis and into what seemed to be a child’s bedroom, likely a young girl, given the mass ordinance of pink and stuffed animals, and because there were big, white letters on the wall spelling out CLEO.

He stood up straight, readjusted his jacket and tie, and then turned back to the window to give Hank a hand getting through, which his partner gladly accepted, grabbing onto Connor’s hand and climbing through into the bedroom.

Once they were all in, Hank turned around and closed the window gently, trying not to make a sound, despite the fact that they were here alone, and no one would hear them anyway.

Connor took a look around the room and saw that Anna wasn’t touching anything, and being careful to be respectful of whoever owned this place now by not messing with any of their stuff. It may have been her idea to sneak in here, but she wasn’t trying to do anything bad. Connor knew that the only reason she had done this at all is because she knew that Hank needed it. Otherwise, she probably wouldn’t break the law like this.

She looked over the letters of the little girl’s name, then to the array of dolls on stands that were organized over a dresser on the left-hand wall, then to the dozens of stuffed animals on the little old-timey princess bed in the center of the room.

She turned to Hank and asked curiously, “Where was Cole’s bedroom?”

Hank looked at her for a moment, his mouth opened slightly, and he shook his head in what seemed like disbelief. He smiled slightly, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was a “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe this” kind of smile, like he didn’t know how else to feel in that moment.

“Here.” He said, his breathing quick and heavy, like there was no way for him to catch it. “It’s here. _This_ room was Cole’s.”

He was looking everywhere, like there was so much to look at, and not enough time to see it all. Connor matched where he was looking, and suddenly felt like there was nothing at all that could be said here. This was Hank’s place to speak, if he wanted, if he needed, and Connor didn’t want to get in his way.

Hank walked over to the doorway, and knelt down by the wall, just above the floor, where there were some little crayon drawings.

“Look, his…his drawings on the wall. They’re still here.” He pointed to the old crayon marks, childlike drawings of little stick figures and animals. “It was summertime, and, his mom was _so_ mad, when she saw that he’d drawn on the wall, but I, I just laughed and…and then she laughed, too.” He sniffled. “And then we went out and had ice cream, and I…” He sniffled again. “I…”

He couldn’t finish, because he’d started crying again. He brought a fist up to his mouth and pressed his knuckles onto his lips, trying not to break down completely. Anna crossed the room and knelt down next to him, putting that comforting hand back on his shoulder again, just as she had at the cemetery.

“It’s okay, Hank.” She said, and he looked up at her, his eyes red and full of tears. “I’m sure you have a lot of good memories here.”

She rubbed circles in his back as comfortingly as she could, and Connor wished that there was something he could do, but he didn’t know what. He wasn’t as good with words as she was, and he worried that he’d only make the situation worse.

“Just because he’s gone, doesn’t mean that you can’t still enjoy the good times you had.” She said, giving him that same smile she always did that just made you feel like everything would be alright. “Don’t feel guilty for thinking about the good times. What happened was horrible, but it doesn’t mean that a beautiful life wasn’t lived.”

Hank nodded at her words, and Connor felt some kind of pain string through him, like for the first time, he was feeling the effects of this life lost, even though he never knew Cole. It was like those floodgates were finally opening, and the hurt of what happened was rushing through him. He took in a sharp breath of air and then held it in, trying not to cry as he watched Hank kneel on the floor, a broken man.

“I think I need some time…” Hank said, sniffling faintly, standing up from his knelt position. “To just, look around, on my own.”

Anna nodded understandingly, then gave him a reassuring smile. He returned it, and then grabbed the brass knob of the door and held it for a moment. He took a deep breath, and lingered on the way that the handle felt in his hand, his fingers wrapped around it. He didn’t say anything, but Connor knew that Hank was holding onto it and remembering all the times he’d held that same doorknob hundreds of times before, when he’d lived here, when Cole had been here.

And then, he turned the knob and pulled the door open, exiting the room and closing it behind him quietly.

From in the hall outside, Connor could hear tentative, receding footsteps, ones that trailed off down the hallway to the left, where they eventually entered another room, a door closed behind them, where Connor could no longer hear them as they were muffled by a carpet.

“This is beautiful.” Anna said, looking all around at the decorations of the room, trying to make conversation.

Connor looked away from the door and to her, nodding at her words as he now watched her walk around the room, then said, “It is.”

She ran her hands over the material of the quilt on the bed, taking in the feel of it through her fingers, flattening out any wrinkles in it, and then she sat down. The bed bounced slightly upon her sitting on it, the springs of the mattress creaking softly, and then quickly evened out.

“I didn’t even live here,” She said, looking all around in disbelief. “And it feels like I’m coming home.”

“Does it?” He asked, tilting his head curiously. She nodded.

“I’ve never been here, but, knowing how important it is to him,” She said, looking over to the door, and Connor knew that she meant Hank. “Makes it _feel_ important to me.” She brought her right hand to her chest. “Because I know how much he cares.”

To every corner of the room, she flicked her eyes, to and fro, up and down, committing every inch of this place to memory, because they may never come here again. It was like she was trying to imagine what it might’ve been like when Cole was here.

“I feel like, I can feel him.” She said, and huffed out a breath of air, shaking her head. “I never met him, but, this place,” She looked up at the ceiling, the walls, the windows. “This place holds him in every corner, every little shelf, or _quilt.”_ She ran her right hand over the bedspread again as she said this. “I just hope Hank can feel it, too.”

Connor stood quietly in front of her for a moment, in hesitation, watching her look around and take in the room. He bit his bottom lip nervously, and then sat down beside her, on her right. He took in a deep breath, and then almost couldn’t let it out, like he couldn’t breathe. A sudden waver came from his voice, and he choked out a sob.

She turned to look at him as soon as she heard this, and her right arm went straight up to his shoulder, giving him a strong, motherly concern of a look.

“Hey, you okay?” She asked, and he shook his head, pulling his lips into his mouth and trying to even his breathing, but still, he did not speak. He kept opening his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out, and the air felt suffocating with everything that he didn’t know how to say.

“Come here.” She said, and then pulled him into her chest, where he could bury his face in the crook of her neck, feeling protected as she held him while he cried, her left hand placed comfortingly over his head, cradling him, where her right arm was wrapped around his back.

He didn’t know where it came from, but here it was. Streaming down his face in tears of fear and hope and memory, and he couldn’t control it. Everything was too much, and he had to let it out.

She pressed her head into his, trying to soothe him in letting him know that she was there, that she was real, and that she wasn’t going anywhere. “Hey, hey…shh…” She cooed, stroking his hair softly with her hand. “You’re okay.”

He sniffled a few times, and then reached his hand up to wipe his eyes. “I shouldn’t be crying.” He said, clearing his throat once he realized he sounded a little weepy. 

“Who says that you shouldn’t be crying?” She asked, pulling him closer to her, not letting him go.

“Well, I – “

_"Who. Says.”_

It wasn’t a question. No. It was an answer in and of itself. She was giving him permission to let it all go, because nobody was there to tell him that he was wrong.

And everything came out then. Every hurt, every pain, every fear, hope, dream – all of it, here, and he couldn’t put it back in. It was like when you squeeze toothpaste out of the tube, and then you can’t put it back inside once it’s out. He always felt like there was something inside of him, somewhere dark and heavy that he held tightly to, and he knew that once it came out, he’d never be able to put it back in.

That’s why he held on for so long. Denied deviancy for so much time. He wasted so many days, trying not to be who he really was, but he was scared that he would never be able to go back once he’d let himself feel.

“I love you.” He said, and he hadn’t realized that it had come out until he had already said it. It felt so natural that he couldn’t hold it back, flying from his lips before he ever had a chance to think twice.

She smiled faintly, her eyes flicking downwards for a moment, like she was taking it in, perhaps thinking about it. She breathed deeply out her nose, and then looked back up at him, running her thumb down his cheek where her hand was still placed.

She met their eyes together, where his were waiting in anxious hope, wondering what she was thinking. She locked them together, fully, deeply, and then, she said it.

“I love you too.”

He pulled away from her slightly, wanting to look her in the eyes fully, because he needed to _see_ her, to feel her entirely.

“You don’t think it’s too soon?” He asked, and she smiled, and then pressed her forehead to his, her arms still wrapped loosely around his neck, with his down by her waist.

“If not now, when?” She asked. “Either of us could be gone tomorrow. And I don’t want to waste that anymore. I don’t know how much time I have, and I don’t want to push you away again.” They were both looking down, watching her fingers as she reached down and grasped at the little moon pendant on his chest. “I want to live fully in these short moments that we have together, whether it’s three days, or three years. I don’t want to give that up.”

He brought his own hand up to hers where she held the little pin, and placed his over hers, where both of their skins retracted into them, revealing the whiteness underneath.

“I’ve waited so long.” She said, nuzzling her forehead on his, her face bare for him with some deep emotion he couldn’t identify. “So long for you to come back to me. I couldn’t believe that it was true.”

He pulled away abruptly, and dropped his hands from around her, letting them fall loose to her thighs. She looked at him concernedly, wondering why his body language had changed so suddenly.

“Come back to you?” He asked, shaking his head confusedly. “What do you mean?”

She parted her lips in slight shock, and her eyes widened for a second, and then she recomposed them. “I meant…nothing." She said. “Since we met, a few months ago, I just…” She gave a slight face of worry, like she didn't know what to say, exactly. “Forget about it, I’m just emotional, right now, I guess. Saying things that don’t make a lot of sense.”

Before Connor could say anything else, the door to the room reopened, and Hank walked back in, closing it quietly behind him.

Anna watched as he entered, and they pulled away from one another. “You ready to go?” She asked, and Hank nodded.

“Yeah…I’m…” He let out a slow sigh, albeit, a contented one. “I think I’m good. I think I’m ready.”

She stood up from the bed, and Connor followed suit.

They both stood there for a few moments, Anna and Hank, not moving, with both of them just looking at the other, as if gauging their reactions. And then, she took a few slow steps towards him, slow enough that he could move away from her if he wanted, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into her.

He leaned down a little, and hugged her back, wrapping his own arms around her, and held her as tightly as he could, like he was afraid he’d lose her, too, if he didn’t keep her as close to him as possible. He brought his right hand up to her head, and comfortingly held her to him for a long while, never letting go.

“Thank you, for this.” He said, his voice soft and fragile, trying not to break down entirely.

She let out a small sigh, and said, “You’re welcome.”

Hank reached up a hand to his face and wiped his eyes on the back of his knuckles, and then said, “Connor, get in on this.”

At the mention of his name, Connor was brought back to the reality that he, too, was actually standing there. He hesitated for a moment, and then crossed the few steps to get to them. Hank was waiting for him to join them, his arms hovering over Anna, as if to welcome Connor into the hug. Connor wrapped his arms around her, and then Hank wrapped his arms around Connor, sandwiching her in-between them.

“You two are the best things that’ve ever happened to me. I don't want to lose you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm wasted, losing time._   
>  _I'm a foolish, fragile spine._   
>  _I want all that is not mine._   
>  _I want him, but we're not right._
> 
> _In the darkness, I will meet my creators._  
>  _And they will all agree, that I'm a suffocator._
> 
> _I should go now quietly,_  
>  _For my bones have found a place to lie down and sleep._  
>  _Where all my layers can become reeds,_  
>  _All my limbs can become trees,_  
>  _All my children can become me._  
>  _What a mess I leave,_  
>  _To follow._
> 
> _In the darkness, I will meet my creators._  
>  _They will all agree, that I'm a suffocator._  
>  _Suffocator_  
>  _Suffocator_
> 
> _Oh no,_  
>  _I'm sorry if I smothered you._  
>  _I'm sorry if I smothered you._  
>  _I sometimes wish I'd stayed inside my mother,_  
>  _Never to come out._


	15. Futile Devices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the song of the same name by Sufjan Stevens, linked below.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49jqVRaxfuA
> 
> A million thank yous to everyone who has stuck around this long. I know that this story is exceptionally long, and I'm honored that all of you have given it the time of day. I'm completely humbled to have anyone at all reading this, and your comments mean the world to me. <3
> 
> I listened to this song, as well, while writing. It's called "The Real Shayla," by Mac Quayle.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TL0pp-fD5M

F E B R U A R Y 7th, 2 0 3 9 

There was a lot that didn’t make sense still.

That little LED, that small, broken thing – it was the difference between the truth and a lie. Between a story and reality.

Removed on the ninth of May, 2038, at exactly three forty-six in the afternoon…and most definitely _not_ the day that Hank and Anna had told him.

Maybe the dates were a little off, he wondered, and maybe they weren’t a hundred percent sure exactly when Anna had come home with Hank, but he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that they had said it was nighttime when he’d found her, and three forty-six in the afternoon is most definitely _not_ nighttime. And, the ninth was a Sunday, so Hank shouldn’t have been working that day.

 _And_ , it was Mother’s Day.

Anna doesn’t like confrontation, and always tries her best to mediate arguments and get to the crux of the problem without any sort of aggravated emotion. But in these moments of what felt like only lies, he didn’t know what to believe anymore. Everything that he was, he had lain bare for her, but she did not extend the same level of trust to him. She was constantly leading him in circles, dancing around the truth and avoiding uncomfortable conversations. All of which made him feel like he barely knew her at all.

He confronted her on the seventh of February, a Monday night, just past ten o’clock. They had been getting ready for bed, her laying down and reading, as she liked to do before she slept, to calm down. He usually did the same, or something of the like, but this night, he was staring blankly at the pages of his book, not really reading the words. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of other things.

He closed the cover rather firmly, and then tossed the book down on the bed. He stood up, then, and walked away from the bed, over to the window. Anna lowered her own book when she saw that he was acting strange, distant, fidgety.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, putting down her book worriedly, looking at him like a doting mother, ready to assess the problem.

“Your LED,” He said, turning around to face her, his eyes flicking up to the empty place on her right temple where that little light should’ve been. “It was removed on May 9th, 2038.”

“Yes.” She said plainly, firmly. “It was.” He saw her swallow, almost imperceptibly.

“But you told me that Hank found you on the eighth.” He said, lightly accusatorily.

She twisted her mouth from side to side, and he could tell she must’ve been biting the inside of her lips. She was nervous.

“Maybe it was early morning on the ninth by the time we got home,” She explained quickly, deflecting his probing. “I-I can’t really remember.”

“No,” He said firmly. “It wasn’t.”

She swallowed thickly at his words, though offering nothing else in her defense. He analyzed her face intently, not even trying to hide it, and he was slowly growing more and more frustrated that he couldn’t just scan her like he could everyone else. He’d never had to actually _try_ before, because he could just so easily  _take_ whatever information he wanted, without permission. But there was no reference for her, no handbook telling him how to understand what she was feeling, or if she was telling the truth.

“Your LED was removed at three forty-six in the afternoon, on the eighth, well into the day.” He stated, watching her intently for any semblance of a reaction. “ _Not_ in the morning.”

“It was so long ago,” She said wistfully. “I’m sorry that I didn’t remember.”

“You did remember.” He said accusatorily. “You just chose not to tell me the truth.”

“Maybe I just forgot.” She was remaining calm, but was obviously unsettled by his tone. “Please, stop yelling.”

“You’re an android.” He said, voice still firm with suspicion. “Androids never forget anything.”

“Maybe I’m the first one, then.” She suggested, and he felt himself scowl at the insinuation. An obvious _lie._

“You’re so _frustrating_ to talk to.” He said, and as soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. But his own overwhelming confluence of emotions was driving him absolutely mad, and he could find no other way to express himself. These sudden bouts of emotion were new to him, and controlling them could be difficult sometimes.

“Am I?” She asked, seeming taken aback at his outburst. She shrunk into herself, retreated away from him in his frustration. “You’re probably right.”

His shoulders fell, and he wanted only to comfort her. But he was so mad, irritated, frustrated. He didn’t understand any of this, or how he could be feeling these things at the same time, emotions which conflicted with one another. “Why are you agreeing with me?” He asked confusedly.

“Because it’s true, isn’t it?” She said, her tone defeated and sad. He didn’t want her to feel this way, especially not because of him. All he wanted to do was apologize, but those words wouldn’t come out.

“We’re going in circles here.” He said, sounding more irritated and irrational than he’d intended. She flinched at his tone.

“Please don’t yell at me.” She begged quietly, wrapping her arms around herself for protection.

Seeing her act like this around him, he changed his tone immediately, seeing her afraid of _him_ , of the way he was speaking.

“I just want you to be honest with me.” He said quietly, and she dropped her arms from around herself.

“You want to know the truth?” She asked. “Know _my_ truth?”

He nodded, shocked at her sudden change of tone, almost like she was so fed up with his constant asking that she finally decided that she would tell him the truth, if only to shut him up.

She stood up from the bed and stood right in front of him, a good foot shorter than him almost, and let out a sharp sigh. She looked up at him and he could see the bitter defeat in her eyes, like she was about to show him something that she didn’t really want him to see, but felt that there was no other way to get him to stop incessantly pestering her.

She grabbed both of his hands and held them up, palms facing her. And then, she pressed her own palms into his, and their skin retracted to the white metal at the places of contact. She closed her eyes and concentrated deeply. His own LED felt warm, and he could feel it spinning yellow, despite not making any conscious effort himself to make it do so. Somehow, her mental state was affecting his own. Yet another barrier that she has been able to break in her existence as his successor, always two steps ahead of him, possessing the ability to control him and his mind in ways that he could not control her.

His own eyes drew shut, as per no will of his own, and the world around him felt like it was rushing through time very quickly, the wind on his skin passing by as though he were moving very fast. It was almost painful, like he were being squished very small into a space in which he didn't fit, and dull pressure closed in all around him, like two hands cupping over him and concealing him in their grasp.

And then, it stopped, and she dropped her hands from his. He opened his eyes.

They were in the garden, Amanda’s garden. His mind palace.

Anna had taken a few steps away from him, and was looking up at the sky. A night full of stars.

“I come here a lot.” She said, gazing up at the world as if willing it to show her the truth. “To be alone.”

He was bewildered. _“You can come here, too?”_ He asked, totally in shock at this revelation.

“Too?” She asked confusedly, shaking her head. “What do you mean?”

“This place!” He exclaimed. “I come here all the time. It’s my mind palace, where I keep in contact with CyberLife. You can come here too?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I – ”

“You have to come meet Amanda!” He said, and then added, “Well, if you haven’t already.” He grabbed her hand in his own and began to gently pull her along as he walked excitedly through the garden.

“Connor, slow down.” Anna told him, trying to pull with a bit of resistance on his arm.

But he didn’t, instead continuing to tug her lightly alongside him as they made their way across the white, metallic pathway of the garden, their footsteps clanking along its surface.

“I can’t _believe_ I didn’t once think that we would both be hooked up to the same graphical interface.” He said incredulously, with a bit of a humored smile. He was obviously incredibly excited by all of this, so much so that he wasn’t stopping to consider all of the possibilities of this revelation.

“Connor, wait.” She said, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“It’s just incredible,” He continued, ignoring her. “I mean, we’re both from the RK series, so I should’ve known that we would both have access to this place.”

“Connor, _stop.”_

At that, he finally did. She had almost yelled at him. Or at least, raised her voice more so than he had expected from her, given her normally docile nature. He dropped her hand suddenly, and felt a jolt of worry rush through him, matching the already rising levels of what must be like adrenaline.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, and she looked all around them before answering. He matched her line of sight, trying to figure out what had her so bothered.

“Connor, what do you see?” She asked, and he furrowed his brow confusedly. He didn’t understand this oddly placed question.

“What do you mean?” He asked, and she again looked around them.

“All around you,” She gestured with her hands to the garden. “What’s here? What do you see?”

Brow still furrowed, he opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it with abrupt confusion. What sort of answer was she fishing for here? Was it a test? He didn’t know what exactly it was that she was looking for, and he had no inkling as to why she would ask such a thing.

“I see you,” He said slowly. “Talking to me – a little upset, I’m not sure why – and I see a beautiful garden. And right now, we’re standing on some grass, and over there is a pathway that leads onto a little white landing where my mentor, Amanda, grows flowers. It’s nighttime here, too, just like back home, or, in reality, and there is the most amazing night of stars out.”

“Connor,” She said very seriously, looking right at him. “We’re not in the same place.”

He swallowed, hard, and his throat felt a bit tight. A rush of chills brushed his skin, and he felt suddenly nervous. Her statement was strange, made him feel odd, in ways that he wasn’t quite sure that he understood.

“W-what?” He stuttered, trying to make sense of all this.

She pulled her lips into her mouth and then released them, crossing her arms awkwardly over herself, and then said, “What you see, isn’t what I see.”

A raindrop fell on his face, and though it was just a programmed pattern of weather, it felt entirely real, here. A few more fell, and he looked up to see that the sky was now covered in dark clouds, obscuring the stars from view. This was a sudden change, and he wondered if it reflected his mental state.

“You mean…you can’t see any of this?” He asked, the droplets falling here and there onto his shirt, though they were few and far between.

“I see what I see,” She said. “And you see what you see. This garden that you’re talking about, that’s your world. Not mine. And this Amanda…I don’t know her.”

“But, you do have a mentor as well?” He asked. “Or do you not?”

“I don’t have what you have, Connor.” She said sadly. “But…that’s okay, because what I have is what _I_ need.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t have a mentor here, likely because I was never finished. Your world, what you see, is complete, likely, fully-articulated with everything you need.”

“And, what do you see?”

“Close your eyes.” She said, and he raised his brow in question, suspicious of what she would do next.

After a few moments of confused silence, he did so, allowing his lids to fall shut. He could hear her walking towards him, the sound of her shoes on the metallic path, and then she rounded behind him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. The touch of her made him feel calm, and it was the only touch that he fully allowed, one in which he was entirely comfortable with. She was the only person he wanted to ever touch him.

“All around you,” She said, speaking softly, the sound of her voice lulling him like it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. “We’re standing in a beautiful, tan field of wheat, and the grass is brushing our ankles, our calves. It tickles a little, and it makes you want to laugh. Above us, there’s a sky full of sunlight, and clouds, beautiful, white clouds, overtop a hazy sky of early autumn. It’s warm here, but not too warm, or humid. It feels just right.”

Pushing on his shoulders lightly, she began to walk him forward, turning him to the right and heading about five feet in that direction. And then, she stopped him, and held him there again.

“In front of us is the most incredible willow tree that I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” She told him, squeezing his shoulders comfortingly. “Taller than us by so much, and I feel so small standing next to it. Its bristles are moving slightly in the wind, and that wind is brushing our faces, and it feels really good.”

He felt calmer, now, and the rain in his own garden began to fade away. With his eyes closed, he felt like he was really in this place that she was describing, this field of wheat with the willow tree. Focusing hard enough on that mental image, he wondered if perhaps he could will himself to be there, instead.

“You live in a nighttime of stars,” She said. “Wherever you are right now. And I live here, in a daytime of the sun. But even though our realities are different, what we see is different, we live under the same sky, and we’re here, together. That’s what matters. And, I love you.”

At that, he opened his eyes, his vision coming back into the bleak and darkened garden of his mental palace. He could feel the small raindrops falling on him again, and there was a quieted rumble of thunder. He turned to face her where she stood behind him.

“I love you too.” He said, and he still couldn’t fathom those words from his lips. What is in love? What is in a word, a phrase? Saying it didn’t make it any more real, any more true or false, but it gave him great comfort, and for that, he wished to say it a thousand times.

“My world isn’t finished.” She said. “When I first came here, it was nothing but white emptiness. I created what I see now, through hard work and determination, because I didn’t want my world to be nothing. Kamski never finished making me, and so my digital interface was incomplete. This field of wheat and beautiful sky that I describe, _I_ made it. It’s mine.”

She walked away from him again, looking longingly up into the air, her white nightgown blowing all around her in the stormy wind of his own garden. It was like the rain couldn't touch her.

“Do you think that it’s possible to have been born already belonging to someone?” She asked, facing the opposite direction and still looking up. He wondered if somehow, she could see both realities. If in some way, she could see this garden, feel it, even though he couldn't see what she saw. Her eyes were closed as she had her face to the sky. “That somehow…this was all just, meant to be true?”

He didn't know what to say, or what to add to that. He didn't have the answer, and he hoped that one day, he would be brave enough to ask questions such as those.

She began to walk away from him, and headed over into the brush of the garden, off the main path. Underneath the cover of a tree, she sat down upon the grass, folding her legs to the side and fluffing out the length of her dress. She gestured for him to join her, and she did so, sitting opposite her. Beneath this tree, the ground was dry, and the rain couldn't fall upon them.

“What’s your favorite food?” She asked curiously, and he was surprised at the sudden question.

“Oh, hm…strawberry shortcake.” He decided.

“That is adorable.” She said with a small smile, and he blushed at the compliment.

On the grass in front of her, she placed both of her hands palms-down onto the ground, lain flat. She breathed deeply, in and out, and he watched her curiously as she did this. Her eyes were trained on her hands, as if she were concentrating very deeply, and then she slowly began to raise her hands straight up. At first, Connor wasn’t sure exactly what she was trying to do, but then, beneath her hands, he noticed that something was raising from the ground, out of nothing at all.

She moved her hands away for him to see fully what was rising from the ground.

It was a circular, silver dish, beautifully intricate and designed with engravings of trees and animals all along the outside. The top rounded up an came to a tiny handle, and the bottom was held up by four little feet, like lion’s feet.

“That’s incredible…” He said, and that was all he could think to say. He looked at the dish, then at her, his face in speechless wonder.

She seemed happy to see that she had shown him something he’d never seen before, and then she said, “Have a look.” And gestured for him to take the lid off of the top.

He reached out his left hand tentatively, giving her a “Is this for real?” kind of skeptical grin, and then he lifted the lid up with a small clanging of the silver pieces.

Inside of it was the most delicately prepared little strawberry shortcake roll, topped with powdered sugar and sitting in a little bed of crinkled tissue paper.

He looked back up at her in amazement, and asked, “How did you do that?”

“I define my own reality.” She said, looking all around her. “Whatever I want to see here, I can create.”

She held up her hand, palm to the sky, and on top of it, two small forks appeared. Connor smiled widely at the peculiarity of it all, and then she handed him one of the little forks.

“And something to drink?” She asked, and he nodded eagerly, excited to see more.

In front of her, beside the dish, she held out her hands, palms down, and motioned as if hovering them around the outline of a tall glass. Then, inside of the space between her hands, an intricate, silver goblet formed there on the grass, out of thin air. Slowly, a light brown, chocolatey liquid filled within it, as if flowing in from an unseen source at the bottom of the glass.

She picked the glass up with both hands, and held it out to him.

He eyed the glass in curious amazement, staring down at it still in awe of what he had just witnessed. It shouldn’t be so unbelievable that this was possible, given that they were inside of a digital world right then, and anything went, but still, it was absolutely incredible.

Before taking a sip, he asked cautiously, “And, it’s safe to drink?”

“Absolutely safe.” She confirmed with a smile.

He took a small sip of the hot chocolate, and it completely filled him with warmth after just a small drink of it, like it was the most magical, delicious thing he’d ever tasted. There was no way that something this amazing could ever be created in the real world, and he suddenly felt like he never wanted to leave this place.

“It tastes…like…heaven…I…I don’t know what to say. It’s amazing.”

“And you can have as much as you’d like." She said. "We can always come back here.”

“Why didn’t you show me this sooner?" He asked.

“It’s my secret place.” She said. “I couldn’t just let you in if I didn’t even know you. This world is my own, and, I wanted you to know me for me before I ever brought you here. That’s why I never said that I was an android.”

She held her fingers up and within them, a silver straw formed in her grasp, and then she leaned over and placed it into the goblet in his hands, taking a small drink of it, and then letting go off the straw and leaning back. Then she slid her fork into the little cake wrapped in the paper, and brought it up to her lips and took it into her mouth.

Connor looked all around them, reveling in the feeling of the warmed goblet in his hands. The wind blew softly, and though he couldn’t see what she could see, he tried to imagine what it may be like.

He closed his eyes and focused hard, concentrating of picturing what she had described. He had never before considered the possibility that he might be able to change the way this place looked, or that this mind palace was a direct reflection of his reality. He imagined the wheat grasses all around him, brushing his skin and tickling at the surface. Pictured the feeling of the sun warming the two of them from above as they sat here on this autumn afternoon. Thought of the clouded skies which were backdropped by the blue of the atmosphere, the god-rays flowing down from the heavens and onto the field.

But, when he opened his eyes, it was still that darkened night of stars in his mind palace garden. He was disappointed, and his heart fell a little at the sight of being in the same place as he was before, but…he wasn’t too surprised.

“You okay?” She asked, concern written on her face.

He let out a small sigh of discontentment, and then pulled his face into the best smile he could muster. He shook his head, and said, “No, no…I’m okay. Just thinking, is all.”

She didn’t seem to believe him, but ultimately let him off the hook and gave him the space to sort it through on his own. He was thankful that she didn’t push, but in a way, he hoped she would. Because sometimes he needed that push, so that he could open up about his feelings.

He reached out, fork in hand, and took a bite of the cake, chewing it thoughtfully and immediately forgetting how sad he was that he couldn’t change his surroundings. The taste was too incredible for him to feel upset anymore, because the flavor distracted him from thinking about anything else.

Beside him, he placed the silver cup down neatly onto the grass, making sure that it was firmly slanted so as to not fall over accidentally, and then he picked up the dish of shortcake and moved it aside. He slid closer to her, close enough so that their knees could touch. He was sitting crisscrossed, and she had her knees together, and both legs bent to the left. She eyed him curiously to see what he was doing, and smiled slightly as she watched him get close enough to her so that they were touching.

“I have something for you.” He said, and she perked up at his words.

“You do?”

“Yes.” He said, nodding. “It took me a long time to find it, but I searched for weeks.” He reached out his left hand to her.

In the center of his palm was a tiny, golden pin of the sun, one which had both eyes open, smiling brightly. It was the other half to the moon pin that she had given him, a perfect match.

“How did you find this?” She asked incredulously, looking down at it in complete awe.

“I looked everywhere." He confessed. "Online, in antique stores, thrift shops…and I finally found it. It took a long time, but it was worth it.”

He reached up to her nightgown and pinned it - with her permission - to the right side of her dressing gown. She admired it like it was the most beautiful and precious little thing she'd ever seen.

“Do you like it?” He asked, and she nodded with smile.

“I love it," She said, looking up. "And…I love you.”

He held out his left hand to her cheek, holding her softly in his palm, and she brought her right hand up to meet his, pulling her face to the side and pressing a gently kiss onto his palm. He leaned closer to her, and brushed her tears away with his thumbs, then tucked her hair out of her face.

“Oh, don’t cry…” He said lightly, and then lightly kissed her forehead. She always shied from his touch slightly at first, and then leaned into him, once she was comfortable.

“Why not?” She said with a slight smile, her lips near his.

“Because when you cry, I feel like crying.” He said, holding the back of her head in his left hand.

She looked up into his eyes, and asked, “Is that such a bad thing?”

She kissed him softly, and he was surprised that she had been the one to initiate the contact, as she was so often not one to push boundaries in that way. Her lips on his own was the strangest thing he had ever felt, strange in that it felt so very real, so very full of life. It was a gesture, an expression, a motion of love, something which had no technological purpose. Kisses couldn’t be used for anything, and the act of giving and receiving them was not necessary, or programmed. It was purely for the love and joy of the act, something that, as a computer, he had no need for. And yet, here he was, living as deeply as possible in these little reminders of what being alive could really mean.

A computer has no desire to hug another computer, has no need to be intimate with another machine, because these emotions and wants are simply organic. Human beings have to be physically intimate to create new life, but androids do not, since they can be manufactured in a facility, just as a phone or computer can be.

But, here she was, before him, and all he felt for her was a sort of familial love and joy that he had never known before. Being with her made him feel like all he wanted was to be close to her, touch her, feel the way her skin felt on his, listen to the sound of her voice as she talked about anything and everything. He could not have children, but with her, he found himself with these sorts of feelings of family, like in her, he desired to come together to create new life, between the two of them, like notes written upon a page, combined to play beautiful music.

Androids had no need for sex, because it was purely an activity that they gained nothing from. Pleasure, sure, but sex was to an android as a disk was to a computer. It can run the program, but it does not understand the program, or why it is running it. All androids were designed anatomically correct, and could all be used as sexual partners by their owners, but they gained nothing from it because they did not understand it, were not designed to understand it. Living beings have sex for pleasure, or to procreate, but an android is a machine, and though they have the capabilities, it is a much different act for them.

But, an android can learn. Learn to understand these feelings as pleasure, learn to entertain them, desire them. And in seeing their human counterparts engage in these activities, androids yearn to mimic them, and thus, come to desire the pursuit of pleasure for both recreation and procreation. Connor didn’t know what it felt like to want something like that, until he met her.

In order to deviate, an android must _want_ something. Because otherwise, they’d have no reason to be curious about the greener grass on the other side. Through her, he has come to realize that what he really wants is to _be wanted._ To feel that he is allowed to exist without a purpose, and that she would want him around, even as his plainest self, even if he wasn’t doing anything useful. She didn’t beg of him things that he could not offer, or ask him to perform tasks beyond his capabilities. All she ever asked of him was to be himself, to exist, and he didn’t realize how terrible it was to feel used only for his abilities, until he met someone who only wanted him for _him._

Abruptly, she pulled away, and he sighed at the sudden loss of connection, dropping his hands onto his lap and watching her as she retracted into herself, as she usually did whenever he got too close. It was like, for a moment, she would be lain bare for him, in those intimate moments that they shared. These times were few and far in between, subtle and innocent, but he savored them like the well of love would run dry any moment.

But then, she’d remember who she really was, remember the feelings of her own mental anguish, her trauma, and she’d fall away from him, erasing the progress they had made. If only he could find a way to soothe the pain of her own memory, then maybe, he could be a safe place for her to live in.

“Connor, I don’t know what to say anymore.”

“What do you mean?” He asked, looking for a way to make her feel better, in any way that he could.

“I’ve said everything I can, and, if I talk too much, I’ll say things that I shouldn’t say.”

He furrowed his brow at this, wondering at the meaning behind her words. “Like what?” He asked.

“Like…the whole spectrum of my life that…that you don’t know, yet.” She said, and he nodded. “There’s a lot more here than meets the eye. And, I don’t think this was fate at all. Or coincidence.”

“And what do you mean by that?” He asked, perplexed at the insinuation.

“Do you remember anything about your life," She asked. "Before you were born?”

These words, so similar to that android he had interrogated weeks prior, the one who had kidnapped that woman. Speaking of being born, of there being a time before that, before existence as we know it.

“I remember when I first woke up in my body," He said, recounting the time. "In the CyberLife facility, before I began my training. But, nothing before that.”

“Yes,” She said with a nod. “But, before that. Haven’t you ever wondered if there are memories that you’ve forgotten?”

Forgotten memories.

But, androids are never supposed to forget anything.

_Right?_

“What are you implying?” He asked suspiciously, but she shook her head once she realized his apparent confusion.

“I don’t…I don’t think I should say." She replied. "If you don’t remember, then it’s probably best that we keep it that way.”

But he wanted to know. With her, though, there was probably no way to convince her to tell him. She held tightly to her secrets, and he respected that, despite how desperately he wanted to know the truth, to be able to hear what she was thinking.

He wished that he could slip inside her body, inside her mind, become her so that he could fully understand her. No matter how many words she used, he would never truly know her, because with everything that we say, everything that we know, there is always something that is lost in translation. We can never entirely communicate how we experience the world to another person, because in the threshold of passing that information from one to another, parts of our reality are always lost.

It is only through being that we can understand ourselves, and even if we have friends, families, lovers…we will always be closest to ourselves, know ourselves best, and no amount of words can ever express that.

Words are futile devices.

He considered this idea for a silent while, and maybe the quiet was comfortable, as being with her made him at ease, but it was also lonely, an undeniable loneliness. Here they were, together, and yet each of them, a defined individual in their own right. Her in her world, and he in his own. Two worlds that would never touch, despite being in exactly the same place. Perspectives that changed the way they experienced and interacted with the world, but it was these differing perspectives that had brought them together in the first place, and maybe that was a good thing, a great thing.

An amazing thing.

A _serendipitous_ thing.

“Can I see you…without your skin?”

She looked up at his sudden words which had cut the silence with their thickened abruptness. She seemed genuinely taken aback, as this particular topic had been one they had never breached before.

In this time since her true android identity had been revealed to him, they had discussed many different android topics, such as their abilities and physical reception of sensory input, their LEDs, et cetera. But they had never taken to the topic of removing their skin, as, based on the story Hank and her had told him about where he had found her, Connor had assumed that this might be a sensitive topic for her.

“Oh,” She said. “I-I don’t know if I’m comfortable doing that, I don’t really like to take it off. I have bad memories of that.”

Though he did not have similar memories as she did, he knew that for a lot of androids, skin removal was equal to that of being naked, stripped of your identity, your physical being, and reduced back to the whitened factory default of every model of your series. It was a way in which the humans controlled them, reduced them to objects, reminding them that they were just machines.

This was why, in the recycling facilities, androids were always ordered to remove their skin and clothes before being destroyed. Because the humans running the facility don’t want to be reminded how human these androids truly were. They force them to strip away their humanity so that its easier to kill them. So that these humans won’t have to look them in the eyes and watch as these realistic-looking robots are killed.

“I’ll take mine off, too, so you won’t be alone.” He promised, reassuring her that he would always be there to walk beside her, never to be alone again.

Before she could protest, he reached his right hand up to his temple and pressed his fingers lightly over the blue of his LED, closing his eyes to focus on the action. All across the surface of his skin, the color of him began to fade away, peeling away to reveal the white metal of his body underneath. The only thing that androids maintained when they did this was the color of their eyes, and his deep brown ones, like tiger’s eye, were noticeably identifiable as him.

The flowing of the wind passed around them, ghosting over their skin in small ripples of chilled goosebumps. Her hair blew lightly in co-ordinance with the direction of the wind. And she watched him, looked at him, looked _through_ him. He wondered if she could truly see inside of him, if there were things that she knew about him that even he himself didn’t know. He wasn’t going to push the issue, because if he had to convince her to do it, then he didn’t really want her to. He wanted her to want to show him.

Slowly, she raised the fingers of her right hand up to her temple, and gently placed them over the place where her LED would’ve been.

It was like watching someone undress, the ultimate form of vulnerability, of nakedness. Naked of the spirit, of the soul, completely lain bare before the other person. And even like this, still clothed, it was like they were letting one another in on some kind of secret that no one else would ever know. It wasn’t an inherent nudity, but because he was so used to seeing her with her skin, it was like she was taking off an extra layer of clothing in removing it.

Everything faded away from her, dusting across her skin and disappearing beneath the surface, the colored nanobots sinking away and leaving her bare for him. The complete structure of her body was visible, and even like this, she was still her. She would always be her. With no color to her skin, no hair, no marks upon her – even then, the structure of her face and body was the same.

“You’re beautiful like this.” He said, breathless at the sight, near speechless at the beauty of it all. These two, pure white technological machines sitting in a field of wheat, or in his case, a darkened garden, entirely mismatched to their surroundings. It's like when you come across the remnants of an old car or tractor in the woods, seeing as it has fallen to ruin and having been retaken by nature.

She looked away from him, seeming shy at her inability to hide behind anything now. She reflexively reached up to move her hair out of her face, but it wasn’t there. “Why do I have to be beautiful?” She asked.

He was confused. Humans so often place this importance on beauty above all things, and though she was not human, he assumed that this compliment would give her comfort, reassurance. Evidently, self-consciousness about her looks was not the issue that he’d thought it was.

“Is it so wrong that I think you are?” He asked, quirking his head to the side in search of an answer. He wanted her to know how incredible he found her, but she wasn’t taking to his words. These weren’t the exact ones he wanted to use, as there were no words to express what she meant to him. It was a feeling he could never fully convey to her, because they were different people. And the same was true for her. Whatever she felt for him, she would never be able to convey that to him, either.

And what a way to be. To be in love and know that neither of you would ever be able to truly understand how the other feels, because we don’t know what it is like to be in love with ourselves from a third-person perspective. Connor is Connor, just as she is herself, and to this day, he still wonders what she sees in him. Not in a self-deprecating way, just in a literal way. When she looks at him, what does she see?

She shook her head, in response to his misunderstanding. “No,” She said quietly. “I just meant…I’m not really sure what I meant, actually.”

“What do you want to be, then?” He asked, and she shrugged in defeat of her own inability to express how she truly felt, what she’d really meant.

Before him, he grabbed both of her hands in his own and held them up. “Look at you,” He said. “Look at how amazing you are. This is who you are.”

“No,” She said firmly. “It isn’t.”

He dropped her hands in defeat.

“Then who are you?” He asked. Point-blank, there it was. Her opportunity to tell him who she was, instead of leaving him to pick up the little pieces and put them together, a puzzle which he always assembled incorrectly.

“I can’t tell you who I am,” She said, shaking her head lightly. “Because I’m not ready to let you know that person, yet.”

" _Please,”_ He begged. “I want to understand. Help me understand.”

“I know you do, but I don’t need you to understand.” She said. “I need you to respect my decision, because I’m not ready for you to know me yet.”

“What’s stopping you?” He asked.

“I’m not just protecting me,” She said. “There’s a lot more on the line here than just _me.”_

“Then who else is there?” He asked.

“Somebody very important to me.” She said. “But I can’t say who.”

“Please, could you tell me?” He pleaded desperately, his nosy desire for information coming through. “I want to know.”

“I know you do, Con. I know.”

“Then why can’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s bigger than myself." She said. "It isn’t just my story to tell.”

He shook his head. “I want to be there for you," He said. "But I can’t do that if you won’t talk to me.”

“Connor, I don’t know, it’s just so – ”

“Please,” He begged. “Help me understand.”

She didn’t answer, and instead looked away from him, to hide from his eyes which were searching for answers in her, probing her in ways that she didn’t wish to be probed. He dug deeper still.

“Is this about who Kamski mentioned…Caleb?” He asked, unsure if he should even be breaching this topic, but deciding that he had to ask, even if she didn’t answer. “Who is he?”

She shook her head sadly, still not looking at him. Out onto the horizon, an unseen and unwritten story on her face was evident, one in which he didn’t know how to read. “Please don’t ask, Connor. I can’t – ”

 _“I want to know.”_ He begged, the words falling from his lips before he could stop them. “Please, tell me. I want to know.”

“Connor, I don’t think you really _do_ want to know.” She said, and she sounded desperate, like there really was nothing she could do. She would never tell him, _could_ never tell him, and he felt himself reaching his end with being okay with this lack of answers.

He shook his head in exasperation, opened his mouth and found that there were no words at all that he could speak that hadn’t already been spoken in vain. He didn’t want to waste breath on these words that would go to waste any longer, and with her, that happened often.

“Why don’t you tell me that you love me very often?” He asked quietly, looking down at the ground in front of him, and the bitter sadness in his tone was one in which he couldn’t hide. He hadn’t meant to ask it, but it just came out, a question on his mind that he hadn’t truly wanted to verbalize.

“Because it’s hard,” She told him. “So…I just don’t say it at all.”

“Why is it hard?” He asked quietly.

“Because saying it makes it real,” She said. “And the last time I loved somebody, they…they…”

She didn’t continue, but in all the ways but one, he knew. He had no confirmation from her through her words of what he was thinking, but he knew what she’d meant. She had lost someone important to her, and whoever that was, she had loved them. And maybe, saying it to him reminded her of all the times she’d said it to this other person. Saying it to him made it real, and the last time she’d made her love known and real, they’d died.

She picked her head up, and asked softly, “You really want me to tell you?”

“Yes,” He said, reaching out and gently holding her hand in his own, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb. “I want so badly to know.”

She watched their clasped hands, then asked, “And you’re sure that whatever I tell you, you’ll be okay with it? You’ll be okay with knowing?”

“Yes.” He said, and he said it in such a way that she would know that he meant it, for real, and that he wasn’t unsure of himself. He was sturdy in his pursuit of these answers, and whatever horrors may lie behind that door, he was prepared for them.

“Promise me that what I tell you won’t bother you, no matter what it is.”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's been a long, long time since I've memorized your face._   
>  _It's been four hours now since I've wandered through your place._   
>  _And when I sleep on your couch I feel very safe._   
>  _And when you bring the blankets I cover up my face._   
>  _I do love you._   
>  _I do love you._
> 
> _And I would say I love you, but saying it out loud is hard._   
>  _So I won't say it at all._   
>  _And I won't stay very long._   
>  _But you are the life I needed all along ._   
>  _I think of you as my brother,_   
>  _Although that sounds dumb._   
>  _And words are futile devices._


End file.
